


The New Testament

by AngelOfTheMoor



Series: Gospel Song [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Cults, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Priest Castiel, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 67,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfTheMoor/pseuds/AngelOfTheMoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam Winchester receives some startling news, he returns to his hometown to investigate. At the same time, Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak are traveling across the country and dealing with their issues when they encounter a sinister group from Castiel's past. Can Sam find closure? What will happen to Dean and Castiel? Sequel to <em>State of Grace</em>--please read that story first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Beginning Was the Word

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ does not belong to me.
> 
> This is a sequel to an earlier story, _State of Grace_. Please read [that fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/830667/chapters/1579133) before this one, as the events of this story are a direct result of that fic's ending. The ending of the earlier story is given away in the first few sentences of this work. Also, the earlier fic contains a lot of background information for the occurrences in this story. Basically, this story will make more sense if the earlier work is read first, I think.
> 
> I've started this off with two chapters, and I'm not sure how long this will be. Updates will be weekly, on either Sunday or Monday evenings.
> 
> Character tags will be added as they become relevant.
> 
> A lot will happen to our heroes, especially Dean and Castiel, but there will be a happy ending, I promise.

Sam Winchester had just received the most bizarre phone call ever.

It had come from an old high school acquaintance, Brady, who thought Sam should be informed about the latest in hometown news, especially since it concerned his family.

 _John Winchester is dead_ , Brady had informed him. _Your dad is dead. They identified him by his dental records; they found his teeth buried in an ash pile in front of his cabin._

The suspected cause of death?

_Murder._

And who did they think murdered Dad?

Dean Winchester and a priest named Castiel Novak.

As rumor had it, Dean and this priest had been having an affair. They had disappeared from town five days ago, and John Winchester’s remains had been found a couple of days later.

Nothing about this story made any sense. First of all, Dean definitely wasn’t gay. At least, he hadn’t been when Sam had last seen him a little over ten years ago. Even if Dean had secret homosexual proclivities, he certainly wouldn’t embark on a relationship with a priest. He avoided religious people like the plague.

What kind of name was Castiel, anyway?

Even if Dean _was_ dating this Castiel character, killing Dad . . .

Dean had been the one who’d always made excuses for Dad. He loved Dad despite his violent temper. He loved Dad even though Dad didn’t display any affection for him.

Sam was more likely to kill Dad than Dean.

He’d learned to hate Dad at an early age, once he started making friends. When he visited them, he found that most families weren’t like his own. That normal dads didn’t behave like John Winchester.

He despised all the time wasted on learning weaponry, on hearing lectures about demons. Most of all, he despised when Dad lashed out at his sons for no reason whatsoever.

Still, Sam had felt a twinge of sadness while listening to Brady on the phone. For some inexplicable reason, a part of him mourned his dad.

What had happened to Dad? He needed the truth.

And the only way he’d find the truth would be to return home.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Sam had taken a week off to visit Jess’s half-brother Garth, who lived in Canada. They’d arrived only this morning, baby Mariana in tow. Jess had been looking forward to the trip, and she would be disappointed if he left. Explaining the situation to Jess would be difficult.

Sam climbed the stairs and found Jess in Garth’s guest bedroom, her back facing him as she cradled Mariana and held a bottle to her mouth. Her blonde hair fell in ringlets at her shoulders, and she looked beautiful.

“Hey, Jess,” Sam began.

“Sam!” Jess exclaimed. She pecked Sam on the lips then pulled back. “I’m so excited for you to get to know Garth. I’ll warn you, he’s a little quirky—”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Sam mumbled. When Garth had answered the door, he’d enveloped Sam, Jess, and Mariana in an awkward group hug. Then he’d brandished this sock puppet he called Mr. Fizzles and spoken in a falsetto voice, ostensibly as Mr. Fizzles. Sam had met Garth at his wedding, but he hadn’t spent much time with him during the occasion, so he had come here knowing almost nothing about Garth.

“—but I think you’ll like him,” Jess finished. Sam cleared his throat and gazed at her, contemplating how to get started. Jess noticed his somber demeanor and frowned. “Sam? What’s wrong?”

“I just got a phone call,” he began. “About my dad.”

Her eyes widened. “And?” He’d told her much about his dad’s hurtful and erratic behavior, and she knew how he felt about John Winchester.

“He’s dead.”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

“Yeah. But that’s not all. They think Dean did it.”

“Dean? Your brother?” Jess had never met Dean, but Sam had told her about how Dean always kowtowed to Dad, about how he was weak and just took whatever Dad doled out to him. 

“Yeah.” Sam shook his head. “But that doesn’t add up. I told you before. He’d let Dad do _anything_ to him. Hell, I think he’d rather die than fight back.”

Jess looked thoughtful. “You haven’t seen him in years, Sam,” she pointed out. “Perhaps he’s changed.” 

“But he can’t have changed _that_ much.”

Their daughter had fallen asleep in Jess’s arms. Jess kissed Mariana’s forehead and placed her in the crib. “So, what’re you thinking?” 

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “I want to go back home and talk to some people.” _Who would I talk to?_ he pondered. “I want to find out the truth. Because if Dean didn’t do it . . . and everyone thinks he did, he’s going to rot in prison for the rest of his life.” Dean certainly didn’t deserve that fate.

“If you go, are you gonna try to see him? Dean?” 

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know if I can. He’s vanished.”

Jess furrowed her brow. “That seems suspicious.” 

“I know,” Sam sighed. “But I think maybe there’s just some misunderstanding.”

“Maybe—” 

“And there’s more,” Sam interrupted. “They think he ran off with some priest.”

Jess raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a soap opera.” 

“I know.”

“So you want to go there. When?” 

“Tomorrow, if I can.” Sam held his breath.

Jess gaped at him. “Tomorrow?! But what about Garth?” 

“I think the sooner I go, the better.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not doing this just to avoid Garth, are you?” 

“What? No.”

“Fine,” Jess sighed. “I’ll pack our things back up.” 

“What?” No, he didn’t want Jess to come. This was a personal matter. “No, I’ll go by myself. You stay here and visit Garth. Let him get to know his niece.”

“But—” 

“This is something I have to do alone.”

“But we’re a team—” 

“Yeah.” Sam kissed her on the cheek. “But you understand me, right? It’s just one of those things.”

Jess nodded after contemplating Sam’s words. “Yeah, I think I understand,” she concluded. She smiled. “We all have something like that.” 

“Thanks, Jess. You’re wonderful.” He planted a full kiss on her mouth, and she leaned into him. They prolonged the moment for as long as they could.

xxxxxxxxxx 

For dinner, Garth brought three boxes of pizza home: pepperoni, cheese, and sausage. “I didn’t know what kind you like, Sam,” Garth explained as he set up the boxes on the kitchen counter. “So I got us some options. I would’ve bought one of everything, but I didn’t have enough money to do that.” 

Sam quirked an eyebrow. Was he serious? That would’ve been at least ten freakin’ pizzas . . . a waste of money and food, for surely there’d have been no way three people could consume that much pizza. “This is fine. Thanks,” Sam assured him.

Garth offered him the widest, goofiest smile he’d ever seen. “Far out!” What was this, the seventies? 

Jess popped downstairs with Mariana, whom she settled into a highchair before examining the pizzas. “I see you got my favorite. Pepperoni,” she commented.

“I think pepperoni is everyone’s favorite,” Garth opined. “I mean, who doesn’t love pepperoni pizza?” Jess eyed Sam, and Garth frowned. 

“I’m actually not a fan. Of pepperoni,” Sam muttered.

Garth gasped. “Jess, you went and got yourself a man who doesn’t like pepperoni? For shame!” 

Jess kissed Sam on the cheek. “He has enough assets to make up for it,” she replied.

Garth pointed at the pantry and the fridge. “Help yourselves. I’ve got sodas and beers in the fridge.” He waited until Sam and Jess had grabbed their slices and drinks before getting his food and joining them at the table. When Sam noticed how much Garth had piled onto his plate, he reined in his impulse to laugh. Garth had gotten three-fourths of the pepperoni pizza and three slices of the other varieties. He wasn’t going to eat all that, was he? Garth was such a skinny guy. 

“Why do you have beer, Garth?” Jess asked. “You don’t drink.” Sam’s lips twitched into a smile, remembering a story Jess had once told him. After drinking half a bottle of beer, Garth had begun yelling about how drunk he was. Jess told him he hadn’t had enough to be drunk yet, and then he started staggering around and generally acting drunk. Jess wasn’t certain, but she suspected Garth had behaved that way simply because he believed he was drunk. But you could never know with Garth, she said. Sam was starting to see why.

“I got it for you guys. Just in case,” Garth answered with a shrug. 

Sam changed the subject. “So, I hear you’re a dentist.”

“Yep. For children. A lot of them are scared when they come in, but I calm them down with Mr. Fizzles.” Sam wondered if kids really responded to that dirty old sock. “I can bring him down now, actually. To talk to Mariana. He’s in my room.” 

“No need to do that,” Jess replied hastily. Clearly, she was as eager to avoid the puppet as Sam. “I’ve already got an airplane.”

“Airplane?"

“Yeah, see?” She scooped some food onto Mariana’s spoon and made airplane noises as the spoon flew toward Mariana’s mouth. Mariana giggled and greedily slurped down the food.

Garth laughed. “Too cute!” 

They spent the rest of the meal discussing mundane matters. To Sam’s surprise, Garth did indeed eat all of the pizza on his plate, letting out a huge burp after finishing the last piece. He chuckled then muttered, “Excuse me.” Another laugh erupted from his throat. Jess and Sam exchanged disgusted glances.

Jess patted Sam on the shoulder. “Sam has something to tell you.” She turned to her husband. “Don’t you, Sam.” 

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled before raising his voice. “I won’t be staying this week. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“What? Why?” Garth sounded disappointed. 

“It’s my dad. He’s—dead.”

Garth gazed at him with compassion. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

Sam shook his head. “It’s all right. We weren’t all that close. But I have some things to take care of.” He felt a stab of guilt for his nonchalant attitude, but he didn’t want Garth smothering him with sympathy.

“Mariana and I will be here for the rest of the week, though,” Jess put in. 

Garth pinched Mariana’s cheek. “We’re going to have so much fun, Mariana!” he exclaimed in a high-pitched voice.

While Garth continued to coo at her, Jess rolled her eyes, and Sam bit his lip to restrain threatening laughter. 

Garth was certainly a character.

xxxxxxxxxx 

“Why do you want to drive down there?” Jess asked when she pulled into the parking lot of a car rental agency. “Flying would be much faster. Probably cheaper, too, if you consider gas prices.” 

Sam shrugged. “I like driving long distances.” Plus, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to confront what he’d find when he arrived in town. Driving would give him a couple of days to brace himself. And to contemplate matters.

“By yourself?” 

“Yeah.”

“If you say so, honey.” She brushed her lips over his before adding, “Call me, okay?” Sam nodded, and she embraced him. “Bye, Sam,” she breathed into his ear. “And good luck. I love you.” 

“Thanks. Love you, too. Bye, Jess,” he returned. He pulled back and waved as he strolled into the agency.

They gave him a Toyota Prius, and he threw his bags into the trunk before taking off. 

His mind wandered to the past, to John and Dean.

Dean had always been a coward when it came to Dad. When Sam was younger, he’d worked tirelessly to protect him from Dad. Problem was, Dean’s idea of protecting Sam involved him antagonizing Dad so he’d turned his wrath from Sam to Dean. Sam hadn’t wanted to be saved at that expense. As he’d grown older, he’d urged Dean to stand up to Dad, explain he wouldn’t tolerate the way their father treated him. Dean refused, claiming Dad couldn’t help his impulses. Sam began to reject Dean’s help, preferring instead to argue with Dad until he backed down. _See_ , he said to Dean. _It works. That’s what you should do._ But Dean just shook his head. 

And then there were the times Dean had flat-out let him down.

Like with Bones. When he was twelve, Sam had found the golden retriever, a stray, roaming around town and taken him home. Surprisingly, Dad let him keep the dog. One night, a loud noise awoke him, and he bolted out of bed to investigate the source. Outside, Dean and Dad were arguing, Dad visibly drunk and waving a gun around. Bones’s body lay at Dad’s feet. With wide eyes, Dean turned to Sam and spoken in a low voice: “I’m sorry, Sammy.” Dad’s laughter followed, and not long after Dad stumbled inside, where he collapsed unconscious on the couch. Sam and Dean remained outside. 

Sam demanded the full story from Dean, and Dean had been honest with him. At around midnight, Dad had forced Dean to get up for a late-night practice session. (And that was another problem. Why was Dean always indulging him? Why didn’t he just refuse not to cater to every whim?) Clearly, Dad had been drinking, and he continued doing so as he practiced with Dean. He became angry at Dean for a mistake and offered him a choice: either kill Sam’s dog or burn the Impala. Dean chose to save the Impala.

What the hell? Sam didn’t talk to Dean for a month after that. Dean constantly apologized and begged Sam to break his silence, but Sam couldn’t forgive him. Even now. 

Why choose the Impala over a _living being_? It was an inanimate object. But for some damn reason, that car was important to Dean. Sam didn’t understand why. The car had been Dad’s originally; Dad had given it to Dean after buying himself a truck. Why would Dean want something that evoked Dad so much? Was Dean that masochistic?

Dean once remarked that the Impala was his only friend. When Sam tried to discuss the comment, Dean disavowed it, claiming he wasn’t that pathetic. And yeah, if it was true, that was freakin’ sad. 

Maybe it had been true, though. Unlike Sam, Dean had never seemed to make friends in school. In high school, there’d been girlfriends, but none of them had ever stayed for more than a couple of weeks. Despite what Dean had wanted him to believe, Sam knew those girls had always dumped him. Dean was just too asocial, not relationship material.

Which was another reason he couldn’t believe Dean was involved with that Castiel character. 

Sam glanced at the dashboard and realized he needed gas, so he pulled off at the next exit, some town called Angel Falls. He drove into the only gas station he saw in the vicinity. As he stepped out of the car, a dark-haired man approached him. He grabbed the pump and asked, “How much would you like, sir?”

Oh, so this was a full-service gas station. These days, those were rare. “Fill ’er up,” Sam directed. He observed that the man’s nametag read, “Ion.” Wow. Someone was a fan of chemistry. After Ion finished filling his car with gas, Sam strolled inside and paid his bill. When he returned, Ion was leaning against the Prius. Sam raised his eyebrows in a question. 

Ion withdrew a piece of paper from his jeans pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Sam. “Have you seen this man?” Ion inquired. Sam studied the photograph of a handsome man with thick dark brown hair and startlingly blue eyes.

“No,” Sam replied. “Who is he?” 

Ion shrugged. “Just some guy. He killed one of our brethren.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Feeling awkward, Sam scratched the back of his neck. What was he supposed to say in response? “I hope you catch him,” he mumbled. 

“So do I.”

Just as his stomach began to growl, he spotted a diner across the street. He pointed to it and asked Ion, “What do you think of that place?” 

“It’s pretty good.”

Sam thanked Ion for the feedback and drove to the restaurant across the street. Except for two cars in the back, the parking lot was empty. He guessed they probably didn’t get much business here, what with being in the middle of nowhere and all. 

When he entered the building, someone called out that he should seat himself. He chose a booth close to the door. He browsed the menu he found lying on the table. A waiter arrived, introduced himself as Inias, and asked what he’d like to drink. Sam defaulted to water. What was with the names of these people? When Inias came back with his drink, Sam ordered a Cobb salad. While he waited for his food, he picked up the brochure sitting at the end of the table by the wall and flipped through it. A drawing of an angel, wings extended, halo hovering, adorned the front page, which displayed the following text:        

> _Feeling empty? Lost in an impersonal world rife with wickedness?_
> 
> _Do you crave a fair, righteous society that respects you as a person?_
> 
> _The Angelic Brethren may be the answer to your prayers._  

Sam snorted at the last line.

Wait. Angelic Brethren? Was that what Ion had meant when he referred to “one of our brethren”? 

Inias appeared with the salad and positioned it in front of Sam. “I see you’ve been reading about us,” he observed.

“You belong to this group?” Sam replied. 

“Yeah. If you have any questions, just ask. And yes, like the pamphlet says, belonging to the Brethren really is like living in paradise on earth.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Once the waiter left, Sam dug into his salad, eager to eat as quickly as possible. He suddenly had an eerie feeling about this place, and he wanted nothing more than to leave.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Sam spent the first night on the road at a random motel. Toward the end of the second evening, he arrived in his hometown. He briefly contemplated staying at Dad’s cabin, but that would bring back too many memories. Not to mention the fact that Dad must’ve died there. So instead he chose the cheapest lodgings, the Lamplighter Inn.

When he walked into the office, he was greeted by the owner, Kate Milligan. “Hey!” she exclaimed. “Don’t I know you?” 

“Yeah. I’m Sam Winchester.” When Sam was in high school, he’d belonged to the National Honor Society, and as part of his community service requirement, he’d tutored Ms. Milligan’s son Adam.

“Oh my gosh! So it is!” She moved from behind the desk and threw her arms around him. “It’s good to see you, Sam! It’s been such a long time.” She pulled back and gazed at him. 

“Yeah,” Sam mumbled.

“I heard about your daddy. I’m so sorry. It’s awful.” She shivered. 

“Thanks.”

She retreated back behind the counter and grabbed a key from one of the hooks behind her. “Here. Room seventeen.” 

“Thanks, Ms. Milligan.” He smiled. “See you in the morning.”

Once he entered his room, Sam collapsed on the bed, closed his eyes, and drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	2. Exodus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this chapter happen simultaneously with the events in the last chapter. The first night is the same day Sam hears the news, the second day is the same day Sam stops in Angel Falls, and the third morning is the same day Sam arrives in his hometown.
> 
> I'll warn you that there's a little political talk here at one point. 
> 
> There are also some sexy times . . . I'm not all that great with writing sex scenes, though.

Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak had become Dean Smith and Casper Milton. They’d spent the past few days driving around aimlessly, unsure of where to go.

“Dean Smith?” Castiel had asked the first time he’d heard the pseudonym. “Couldn’t you think of a less generic last name?”

Dean had shrugged. “Hey, it’s common. It blends in. What about you, _Casper_?”

“What’s wrong with Casper?”

Dean had rolled his eyes. “Who’s ever met anyone named Casper? Like, in real life?”

“It’s a legitimate name. Besides, compared to Castiel, it’s—”

“Whatever, _Casper_.”

Now, just as they had every night so far, Castiel and Dean lingered in the bar of a small town. Castiel perched at the counter, the bartender refilling his glass as he sipped the beer and watched Dean, who was playing pool with some regulars. Dean had been hustling pool to expand their cash supply, and he was good at the game. Castiel liked observing Dean from afar as he engaged in the activity; he was clearly in his element. He glowed, and his movements were beautiful, even graceful. As he played, he flirted with a couple of girls nearby, but Castiel didn’t mind. At first, he’d wished that Dean might run off with one of them because he didn’t deserve Dean, especially after what he’d done. But when Dean smiled at the women, it didn’t reach his eyes. It was as if the flirtation were an automatic reflex he didn’t know how to stop. The smile reached his eyes only when he looked at Castiel.

“Haven’t seen you here before,” a female voice purred into his ear. He turned to the source and found himself facing a cute brunette.

“No,” he muttered as he worried about how to get rid of her.

She grinned and leaned in closer. “Welcome to town. I’m Daphne.”

“Oh. My name is Casper,” he replied.

“What? Like the friendly ghost?”

“What friendly ghost?”

“Y’know. Casper, the friendly ghost.”

Castiel stared at her blankly. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

She laughed. “You can’t be serious?” When he didn’t respond, she stopped giggling. “You _are_ serious.”

“Yes.”

She placed a hand on top of his, and he restrained his urge to tear it away because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “So, Casper. What brings you to our little neck of the woods?”

“Um—” Castiel struggled for an answer. Thankfully, a voice from his right precluded the need for one.

“Cas, you ready to go?” Dean asked.

“Who’s this?” Daphne wondered.

Castiel snatched his hand away and gestured to him. “This is my friend Dean.” 

She and Dean shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

“Pleasure,” Dean mumbled before glancing at Castiel. “You ready to go?” 

“Yes. Good-bye, Daphne.”

“Bye, Cas. Casper.” 

After they clambered into the Impala, Dean chuckled as he turned to Castiel, “Wow. You really need to step up your game.”

“What?” Castiel replied, puzzled. 

“She was obviously flirting with you, and you just sat there like a block of wood.”

“So? I’m not interested in her.” Dean laughed again and patted Castiel’s hand. Castiel changed the subject. “Who’s Casper the friendly ghost?” 

Dean chortled. “It’s a cartoon. A ghost who’s a little boy.”

“Oh.” So that was why the name had been funny to Dean. 

Dean drove across the street to the motel, where he visited the office while Castiel waited in the car. He returned a moment later with a key and moved the car to a spot beside their room.

As Castiel followed Dean into the room, Dean explained, “The only rooms they had left were the king-size beds. It’ll have to do.” They’d been renting rooms with two double beds and hiding the true nature of their relationship from everyone. After all, one never knew who was homophobic. Occasionally, Castiel still wasn’t sure what he thought of homosexuality himself. He didn’t think it was wrong, for his time with Dean had never felt wrong, not even the sex, except for the fellatio in the confessional, but that was another matter entirely. 

Ever since they’d fled town, however, Castiel hadn’t allowed Dean to touch him. He would take one of the double beds and claim he was tired, forcing his eyes closed to support his claim.

He didn’t deserve Dean, and he had to wean Dean off of him somehow. Every time Dean’s fingers brushed his skin, he was reminded of John Winchester’s glassy eyes staring up at him. 

He allowed Dean to touch his hand, as he had in the car, and kiss him on the mouth. But he never reciprocated the kisses, and so when he did kiss Castiel, afterward Dean would sigh and retreat to the bathroom.

Castiel lay down on the bed, clasped his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. He felt Dean’s weight as he plopped onto the bed next to him. 

“Cas?” Dean said. “I know you’re awake.” Castiel’s eyes fluttered open. Dean lay on his side facing him, and now he placed a chaste kiss on Castiel’s lips. Castiel ignored him, focusing on the ceiling instead. A hand snaked underneath his shirt, stroking the bare skin of his shoulder.

Castiel jerked away from him and hissed, “Don’t touch me, Dean.” 

“Cas—”

“ _No_.” 

“Cas, please. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“You know damn well what’s wrong,” Castiel snapped. 

“Let’s just talk about it. Please?” After a moment of silence, Dean yelled, “Dammit, can’t you at least look at me!” Castiel sat up, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and gazed at Dean. He noticed the sorrow in Dean’s eyes.

“How can you still want me?” Castiel asked in a low voice. “I killed your father.” 

Dean sighed. “I just do, Cas. I love you.”

“Even—” 

“ _Yes!_ We’ve talked about this a million times, for fuck’s sake!”

“I—” 

“ _It was an accident!_ ”

“I should have been more careful.” 

Dean pointed out, “But he was gonna kill you, Cas!” Castiel didn’t respond, and Dean sighed again. “Oh, yeah. How could I forget? You told him to _do it, goddammit!_ ” Castiel winced at the pain in Dean’s voice.

“You would’ve been better off without me, Dean,” he whispered as a tear streaked down his cheek. 

“ _Do you really fuckin’ believe that?!_ ”

“Yes,” Castiel whispered. 

“Then _fuck you, Cas_!” Dean shouted, turning his back to Castiel. “If that’s what you really think, then fuckin’ leave!”

“I will.” Castiel opened the door and wandered off into the night. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door open again, so he hid behind the bushes next to the highway. 

“Cas!” Dean hollered as he circled around the motel. “Cas! Where are you, dammit! I didn’t mean it! Cas! Cas! Come back! Come back, please! I’m sorry.” The last two words came out in a strangled sob, and Castiel was tempted to run back to Dean. But he couldn’t. This might hurt Dean now, but it was best. After calling for Castiel a little while longer, Dean stumbled back into the room, slamming the door behind him.

Castiel wiped away his tears and began strolling down the highway. This late at night in the middle of nowhere, hardly any cars passed by. When a vehicle did appear, Castiel stuck out his thumb as he’d seen a hitchhiker do in a movie he’d watched with Dean. Eventually, a semi pulled over. The driver threw open the passenger door and urged, “Hop in!” Castiel climbed into the truck, where a clock informed him the time was a little after three a.m. 

The man offered his hand. “Name’s Gordon Walker.”

Castiel shook it. “Casper Milton.” 

“Where ya headed?” Gordon resumed driving.

Castiel shrugged. “Where are you going?” 

Gordon laughed. Castiel didn’t know why the sound struck him as sinister. “Don’t know, huh?” Castiel shook his head. “I can take ya to the end of the line, if you want.”

“What’s the end of the line?” 

“Minneapolis.”

“All right. I can go to Minneapolis.” The driver laughed again. He reached for the radio tuner and fiddled with it until he landed on a talk show. The speaker was rambling about illegal immigration, deploring that soon “America would not be America.” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” Gordon agreed. “Am I right, Casper?”

“Um—” Castiel didn’t concur, but Gordon had grown so animated he was afraid to contradict him. 

“With all these Mexicans, soon America will _be_ Mexico.”

“They’re not all Mexican,” Castiel pointed out. 

“What?”

“The immigrants. They’re not all Mexican.” 

“I don’t care _what_ they are,” Gordon opined. “They’re taking jobs from good hard-working Americans, and they don’t even have the decency to learn to speak American.”

“English.” 

“What?”

“There’s no such language as American. It’s English.” 

“Fuckin’ smartass!” Gordon exclaimed. “You know what I mean!” He paused then added, when Castiel didn’t answer, “Don’t you?”

“Sure,” Castiel sighed. 

Castiel had to listen to the heinous talk show host’s opinions, with Gordon’s inserted growls of approval, for what felt like forever. When the program faded out, Gordon searched for something else to listen to and, with a moan of frustration, stopped on the only available offering, a country station.

“You know who else is ruining this country?” Gordon asserted. 

“No,” Castiel muttered.

“The gays.” Castiel stiffened and huddled against the passenger door. “Them and their demands for special rights. They’re always throwing their agenda in your face. Why the hell should we approve of their deviant choices? We should be locking those sick puppies up, not singing kumbaya with them. Right?” 

Before he’d met Dean, he might’ve agreed. Not with the locking up part, but with the idea that being gay was wrong. But now he knew better. He hadn’t chosen to fall in love with Dean, not exactly. He’d been drawn to him like a magnet. And he knew two wonderful women who were lesbians, or had known them, anyway. Charlie and Anna. They were ten times better than Father Michael and Father Raphael.

Perhaps he should agree with Gordon just to shut him up, but his conscience rebelled against the notion. 

“Right?” Gordon repeated.

“Um—” 

“Wait. You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“What?” 

“I should’ve known! You’re too pretty _not_ to be gay.” Gordon pulled onto the shoulder and gazed at Castiel. Castiel shrank, flattening himself against the door. A cold feeling settled into his stomach. Gordon stroked Castiel’s cheekbone. “Yes,” he murmured. “ _Much_ too pretty.” With his other hand, he fisted Castiel’s hair, tugging at it as he smashed his mouth against his and forced Castiel’s lips to part slightly. Gordon invaded his mouth with his tongue, and Castiel heard a squeak bubble up from his throat. Gordon groaned and bit Castiel’s bottom lip, sucking it before pulling back. “You like that, don’t you?” Gordon said with a disturbing smile.

“I—” Castiel began. 

“’Course you do. You’re nothing but a slut. Like all the gays.” As he gripped Castiel’s shoulder, Castiel grasped the door handle behind him. The door flew open, and Castiel staggered backward, his head hitting the grass while the rest of his body hit the concrete. Pain thundered into his body.

“Fuckin’ fag,” Gordon grumbled. He crawled to the passenger seat, spit on Castiel, closed the door, and drove off. 

Castiel tested his limbs and found that nothing was broken. He lay there and stared into the predawn light until he’d gathered enough strength to stand. No more hitchhiking, he decided. The next driver could be even crazier than Gordon Walker. He counted the cash in his pocket and discovered he had enough for a bus ticket.

He walked on aching legs for hours until he reached the next town. He bought a bus ticket at the gas station, which also doubled as the town’s bus stop. He bought a snack and a bottle of water and rested on a bench until the bus arrived. When he boarded, he spotted an empty seat near the back and headed toward it. He finished his drink then fell into an uneasy doze. 

“Ooh, child!” a woman exclaimed behind him. His eyes snapped open at the sound. He glanced at the woman and the other passengers around him. His eyes returned to the woman, who was staring straight ahead.

“Are you talking to me?” Castiel asked, feeling sheepish. Of course she wasn’t talking to him. Maybe she’d been on the phone. 

“I sure am,” the dark-skinned woman replied as she extended a hand above the seat back. Castiel clasped it; then she introduced herself as she dropped his hand. “Missouri Moseley, psychic. At your service.” Castiel frowned. He didn’t believe in psychics; in his estimation, they were probably all frauds. Or just good observers. She picked up his hand, which he’d laid on top of the seatback, and traced her index finger over its lines. “I can read your fortune, child.”

“Um—” 

She closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, she said, “Child, you need it. They’ve spoken to me.” _They?_ She ran a hand over his palm. “Hmm. Let’s see. You’re deeply in love with someone. Her—no, _his_ —name begins with a ‘D.’” Castiel paled. Surely she hadn’t gotten that from his palm? “No, child,” she resumed. “I told you, they speak to me.” She cackled and withdrew her hand. “That part’s just for show.” Castiel blushed. “Want me to continue?” He nodded.

“You’re running away from something. But running won’t make it go away. Abandoning D won’t make it go away.” He hadn’t _abandoned_ —“Yes, you have, child. He called and called, and you turned away. He calls to you now, yet you continue to run.” Castiel felt more heat rising to his cheeks. “Go back.” 

Castiel chewed on his lip. “But—” _I hurt him_.

“Yes, you did something wrong, child. You’re no saint. Neither is he. No one is. 

“You belong together. It’s such a powerful connection . . . ” Her eyes grew bright. “It can’t be fathomed or described. It just _is_.

“You need him. And he needs you.”

 _Dean needs me?_ No. He’d only made Dean’s life worse.

“Stop fooling yourself, child. Trust me. Abandoning him is the wrong thing.”

Tears leaked from his eyes. He brushed them away and muttered, “Thank you.”

She smiled. “Just doin’ my job.”

He scrambled off the bus at the next stop; then he lingered in the station for a while as he mustered up the courage to make the phone call. Eventually, an employee told him he wasn’t allowed to loiter, so he strolled around town until he stumbled on a park. There, he settled on a bench and dialed Dean’s number.

xxxxxxxxx 

After Dean slammed the motel room door, he sank onto the bed and closed his eyes as a few stray tears fell. _Dammit_. Fuckin’ Cas. He’d just lost the only thing he’d had left.

He clenched his fists, fingernails digging into his palms. When they’d left Dad’s cabin, he’d thought Cas and he were on the same page. But during their journey, Cas had been drifting, not responding to Dean’s overtures or rejecting them. 

It wasn’t just about the sex. Sex with Cas had been much more, a tightening of their bond, something beyond orgasmic that sated his soul as well as his body.

Yes, he mourned Dad, but what’d happened hadn’t interfered with his feelings for Cas. If he had to choose between the two, he would keep Cas. Maybe that was horrible, but whatever. 

“Fuckin’ leave!” Those had been the last words he’d said to Cas.

Shit. That had been his damn frustration speaking. Cas gone was the last thing he wanted. But Cas holding himself off like that . . . he couldn’t take it. The stubborn ass wouldn’t even let Dean talk to him about it. 

Fuckin’ martyr. He knew Cas loved him and was denying himself out of a sense of guilt.

Dean sighed. Perhaps he didn’t deserve Cas, anyway. Cas was probably too good for him. 

He stared up at the ceiling, counting the dots. He’d always thought those types of ceilings were hideous. What were they called? Popcorn ceilings.

As soon as the gas station next door opened, Dean walked to it and picked up a case of beer. As he paid, the cashier remarked, “Bit early in the day, isn’t it?” It was five a.m. 

“Who says I’m drinkin’ it now?” Dean retorted.

The man shrugged, and Dean ambled back to the motel. He ripped open the package, cracked open a can, and gulped down half of it in one sip. He lost count of how many cans he consumed, and eventually he passed out. 

When he woke up hours later, his vision was grainy, his eyes filled with crust. He swiped at them clumsily, the light which streamed through the window burning his eyes. He headed for the bathroom, where he threw up.

Son of a bitch. There was only one hangover cure that interested him: hair of the dog. He guzzled another can and reached for still another when the sound of ringing pounded into his head. 

Only one person had that number.

He snatched up the phone from the end table and answered, “Cas?” 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas rasped. Dean’s heart dropped at the desperation in his voice.

“Where are you?” 

Cas told him the name of a town then stammered, “I’m sorry, Dean. I shouldn’t have left you.” He sounded like he was on the verge of tears.

Dean chewed on his thumbnail. “’S all right, Cas,” he mumbled. “Just don’t ever do it again. Okay?” 

“Okay.” He could almost hear Cas nodding on the other end of the line.

“I’m comin’ to get ya.” He felt bile rising in his throat, and he rushed back to the bathroom, where he vomited again. 

“Dean?” Cas ventured. “Are you all right?”

“’M fine,” Dean assured him. 

“Dean, if you’re not well, perhaps—”

“I told you, I’m fine!” Dean insisted. “So listen. I’m comin’ to get ya. It’ll take a few hours for me to get there. Stay put, all right?” 

“Yes, Dean.”

Dean drank a glass of water, paid the motel bill, and started up the Impala.

xxxxxxxxxx

At sundown, Dean arrived at his destination. A steady rain fell as Dean pulled into the park Cas had mentioned to him. Cas was nowhere in sight, so Dean texted him, and a second later, Cas appeared in the distance. As Cas came closer, Dean noticed he was so drenched he looked like a drowned kitten, and he wanted nothing more than to comfort that drowned kitten.

Cas slid into the passenger seat, clasping his arms around his knees and propping his chin up on them. He was shivering. Dean swept a hand through Cas’s damp hair, Cas leaning into the touch. “You all right, man?” Dean asked. Cas merely nodded, but his red-rimmed eyes belied the motion. “Wanna change into something dry?” Cas shook his head and shrank further into himself. “Why didn’t you go inside somewhere?” Cas shrugged, and Dean sighed. “How’d you get here, anyway?”

“Hitchhiking,” Cas coughed. “The bus.”

“Oh. Well. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They drove for a few hours as the rain continued to fall, the sound mixing with the music of Led Zeppelin. Eventually, it started hailing, and the rain came down in torrents. Dean couldn’t see where he was going, so he pulled over to the side of the highway. He turned to Cas, whose legs were now stretched out before him. Thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed, illuminating Cas. He was mostly dry now, but patches of dirt smeared his blue shirt and his jeans. Dean smoothed down his tousled hair, and his hand lingered there as he tentatively placed his lips on Cas’s. This time, Cas returned the gesture, his lips pushing insistently on Dean’s, his tongue licking over them. Dean allowed Cas’s tongue to enter his mouth, to explore it.

Cas was responding to him now. Thank God.

His lips broke away from Cas’s for a moment, and Cas emitted a wistful sigh. Dean maneuvered himself into the passenger seat until he was on Cas’s lap, straddling him as he leaned Cas’s seat back as far as it would go; then his lips flew back to Cas’s. Their lips remained locked together as they pressed against each other, Dean’s chest flush against Cas’s, his dick twitching as he felt Cas’s arousal.

With careful fingers, he unbuttoned Cas’s jeans then dragged the zipper down. He pried his mouth from Cas’s and breathed the words against his lips. “Is this all right?”

Lightning lit up Cas’s face, highlighting the pensive blue eyes. “You may continue,” Cas replied after a long pause. Dean laughed. “What’s so funny?”

“‘You may continue’? That’s just so quintessentially you, Cas.”

“Quintessential? That’s a big word, Dean Winchester.”

“Just because I dropped out of high school doesn’t mean I’m a dumbass,” Dean groused.

“I know.” Cas nibbled at his ear and whispered, “You should use big words more often, Dean Winchester.” His lips traveled from his ear down to the base of his neck, where he sucked. Dean’s skin tingled at the sensation.

“That turns you on, huh?” Dean teased.

Cas flicked his eyes up to him, their guileless blue smiting Dean’s heart once again as the storm continued. “Yes.”

Dean swallowed. Cas’s voice was sexy enough to almost make him come. Dean grabbed a bottle of lube from the glove compartment and handed it to Cas. He tugged at Cas’s jeans, then his boxers, until they hit his ankles, after which he pulled down his own. “Prep me,” he told Cas. Cas just stared at him, so Dean elaborated, “I’m gonna ride you. Cowboy.” Wow. He sounded idiotic. But he could’ve sworn he saw Cas lick his lips. “What’re you waiting for?” Dean said.

Cas lathered some lube onto his hands then onto Dean’s ass, his cold fingers provoking goose bumps. As Cas inserted a finger, Dean moaned then planted his lips back on Cas’s. Each time lightning flared, they gazed directly into each other’s eyes. He felt another finger enter him, and he gasped as it jabbed his prostate. Soon there was a third, then a fourth. When Cas removed his fingers, Dean let out an involuntary whine. Cas broke contact with his lips, coated his dick with the lube, and raised his eyes to indicate he was ready. Dean lifted himself up, positioned himself, and sank onto Cas, angling himself so Cas’s cock hit his prostate. 

“Dean,” Cas choked out, the syllable charged with ecstasy. Dean bucked against him. He started slowly, and soon Cas began to thrust up into him. The rhythm gradually increased until they were frantically slapping into each other, heat consuming them.

“Dean,” Cas whispered into his mouth as their tongues copied the dance of their bodies. 

“Cas, Cas, Cas,” Dean whimpered. Cas’s fingers brushed up and down his neck, the action shooting more electricity to his brain.

“Dean!” And Cas was coming inside him, Cas radiating in and around Dean, his mind only registering _Cas, Cas, Cas_ , and there was nothing else in this world, nothing at all. 

“Castiel,” Dean breathed as Cas collapsed onto his shoulder. He held Cas close to him for an eternity, for only a second, until Cas jerked back.

Cas wrapped a hand around Dean’s leaking cock. “Allow me,” he urged in a low voice before bending down and taking Dean into his mouth. Dean fucked into it, his pace furious as Cas ministered to him. It wasn’t long before he came. He was expecting Cas to spit it out as usual, but he swallowed instead. The next strike of lightning displayed a ring of white on Cas’s lips. 

“You didn’t have to do that, y’know,” Dean pointed out as Cas straightened up.

“I wanted to,” Cas responded. 

“Mmm. How was it?”

“Not unpleasant. It tastes like you.” 

“Oh, so I’m just ‘not unpleasant’?” Dean scoffed.

“You’re delicious,” Cas countered. “Taste.” His lips crashed onto Dean’s, and Dean felt the cum rub off onto his lips, into his mouth. Blood flooded to his dick, but he didn’t think he was up for round two. 

“Kinky bastard,” Dean sighed affectionately.

As Cas gorged on Dean’s mouth, he reached a hand under Dean’s shirt, fingers massaging his shoulder and the acid burn. He snatched his lips away from Dean’s and brushed them over his heart. “I love you, Dean,” he pronounced, his voice tender. 

Dean kissed Cas’s brow. “Love you, too, Cas,” he hummed. He yawned. “Maybe we should get some shut-eye.”

“Yes.” They pulled their boxers and jeans back up. Dean stretched his arm toward the backseat and retrieved Cas’s tan trench coat, which Cas had been using as a blanket. He swung it around their shoulders, and they burrowed inside, exhausted bodies melding together, resting their heads on each other’s shoulders. 

“’S nice. This,” Cas muttered after a moment.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. With the next flash of lightning, Dean noticed tears streaming down Cas’s cheeks. In the darkness, he blindly reached for Cas’s cheeks and swept the tears away. “Why’re you crying?” he inquired softly. 

“I’m scared,” Cas sniffled.

“Me, too,” Dean admitted. “But you’ve got me.” 

“And you’ve got me,” Cas affirmed in a trembling voice.

Dean pecked him on the lips. “Let’s not worry about it now, okay?” 

“Okay.”

Dean yawned again, his eyes drifting closed. “’Night, Cas.” 

“Good night, Dean.” Dean thought he heard a smile in the words.

As they clung to each other, Dean fell into a peaceful sleep. 

xxxxxxxxxx

“Two can play that game, y’know,” Dean told Cas in the morning. They were sitting on the hood of the Impala, eating Little Debbie sticky buns and drinking water. This stretch of highway seemed deserted; they hadn’t seen any other cars the whole time Dean had been parked here. 

“What game?” Cas inquired once he finished chewing.

Dean spoke with his mouth full, and Cas grimaced. “The ‘I ruined your life’ game.” 

Cas furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Well.” Guilt had been plaguing Dean, and now he decided to voice his concerns. “Look at you. At what you were before me. You had a good life. A mission you believed in. Respect. Then you had to go and be friends with filth like me.” 

“It was a terrible life, Dean.”

Dean was taken aback by the somberness of Cas’s tone. “What?” 

“I didn’t know it until I met you, but it wasn’t a real life. I was an automaton. I’d drained everything of myself, thinking it was atonement. Then you—you turned that switch, and I came flooding back in.” Dean gave him a quizzical look, and Cas smiled grimly. “You don’t understand, do you?”

Dean drummed his fingers on the Impala. “No, I think I do. Just . . . once you got yourself back, maybe you should’ve, y’know . . . found someone better to pal around with.” 

“There is no one better.” Cas squeezed his hand.

Dean gaped at him in disbelief. “I don’t understand how you can think that when you know me.”

With his free hand, Cas tilted Dean’s chin so his eyes met that breathtaking blue. His hand remained there, caressing the spot, and Dean leaned into it reflexively. “I wish you could see what I see.”

“But you could be _there_ ,” Dean objected. “If it wasn’t for me . . . you wouldn’t be stuck in all this shit.” Dean swept his hands out in an all-encompassing gesture.

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be. Not without you.”  He removed his hand from Dean’s chin and threw an arm around his shoulders, cradling him. With his ear against Cas’s chest, he could hear his lover’s beating heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear any feedback you may have!


	3. Wolves in Sheep's Clothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how much time I'll have tomorrow, so I'm posting the third chapter now. I think I'll be updating on either Sundays or Mondays every week, depending on how my schedule works out.
> 
> Warning: the child molestation scandal subplot appears here, and it'll pop up a little in later chapters, too.

Sam started off his morning with a jog. He flushed every time someone recognized him and waved at others hesitantly. He’d been gone for so long that being here, seeing people he hadn’t thought of in almost ten years, felt awkward, more so than he’d anticipated. On his way back to the Lamplighter Inn, he stopped at a convenience store and bought some water, granola bars, and the day’s newspaper. On the front page, he noticed a photograph of two priests, but it quickly disappeared as he rolled the paper up. Once inside the room, Sam threw the items on the chipped wooden desk and jumped into the shower, relaxing into the warm water. He considered who he should talk to first about John Winchester’s death. And how to learn more about Castiel Novak. Novak’s former colleagues might be able to shed some light on his personality, and the sheriff might have some theories about Dad’s death.

After the shower, Sam sat down at the desk and unwrapped the paper as he bit into a granola bar and took a sip of water. The headline on the front page read, “ **Local Priests Caught up in Sex Scandal**.” What the hell? He read the article:

>   
> _Two priests at St. Francis’s Catholic Church have been accused of involvement in a child molestation scandal, according to an anonymous source with the sheriff’s department._
> 
> _It has been alleged that Father Raphael Ingalls has continuously molested several altar boys for an indeterminate period of time. The names of the purported victims have not been released, and their identities are likely to remain anonymous in order to protect the children._
> 
> _Furthermore, it is suspected that the senior priest at St. Francis’s, Father Michael Archer, has engaged in a cover-up of Ingalls’s activities._
> 
> _Both Archer and Ingalls worked with Father Castiel Novak, whose location is still unknown. Novak is not suspected as a participant in the scandal. However, he is still a person of interest in the murder of John Winchester, along with his lover Dean Winchester, the victim’s son. For the latest on the Novak-Winchester case, turn to page A3. Updates on this story will be provided as more details emerge._

Sam flipped to A3, but the article about Dean and his supposed lover wasn’t very informative. It merely said that Dean and Novak were still at large and no other suspects had emerged with regards to John Winchester’s murder.

What should Sam do now? Should he still talk to those priests? If they really had done what the paper’s article suggested, then they probably weren’t reliable sources. _C’mon, Sam_ , he told himself. _Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?_

Okay. So, the priests would come first; then he’d visit the sheriff. 

He stopped by the motel’s office to exchange pleasantries with Ms. Milligan then drove to St. Francis’s. The church was a large, imposing brick building. Sam had always admired its architecture, the immaculate stained glass windows, the individual grooves and arches, as well as the stately oak trees out front. He wandered into the church and glanced around at the wooden pews, unsure of where to go. Eventually, a man in his late fifties approached him. Sam recognized him from the newspaper’s photograph.

“May I help you?” the priest asked. 

“You’re Father Michael Archer?” Sam ventured.

The man extended a hand. “Father Michael.” 

Sam shook his hand. “I’m Sam Winchester—” he began.

“Sam Winchester?” Father Michael marveled as he retracted his hand. “John Winchester’s son?” 

“Yeah.”

Father Michael’s voice grew friendly. “What can I do for your, Mr. Winchester?” 

“Call me Sam. Please.” Not that he wanted to be on a first-name basis with the priest, but “Mr. Winchester” always evoked his father, and he rejected anything that equated him with Dad.

“Okay, Sam. Well?” 

“I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute,” Sam explained. “You and Raphael Ingalls. If you guys could tell me a little about Castiel Novak?”

Father Michael stiffened. “Why do you want to know about _him_?” 

“You see,” Sam stammered. “Um, well. I’m sure you know what’s been happening here, with Dad and Dean, and—”

“My condolences,” Father Michael injected. 

“Thanks,” Sam muttered. “Um, yeah. So I’m trying to figure it all out for myself. Dad and Dean and how Mr. Novak fits. Because I just don’t understand it.”

The priest swept him into an embrace. “My poor child,” he commiserated before pulling back. “This all must be so hard for you.” 

Well, Father Michael seemed nice enough. Sam wiped away a rogue tear, confused by its appearance. “Thanks. So. Can we talk about Novak?”

“Sure. I believe Father Raphael is in his office. Follow me.” 

The priest led him through a labyrinthine hallway until they reached several rooms near the back. Father Michael knocked on the door of one of them. “Are you in, Father Raphael?” Father Michael called.

“Come in,” Father Raphael yelled. Father Michael turned the doorknob, and they entered. After glancing at Sam, Father Raphael, who was sitting at his desk, directed a questioning look at Father Michael. 

“Father Raphael, this is Sam Winchester,” Father Michael introduced him.

Father Raphael shook Sam’s hand. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he offered. 

“Thanks,” Sam mumbled.

Father Michael deposited himself into a chair in front of Father Raphael’s desk and invited Sam to take the seat next to him. After that, Father Michael said, “Sam has something he wants to ask us about.” 

Father Raphael arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’ve been looking into all the stuff about Dad, and I was wondering about who Castiel Novak is. What can you tell me about him?” 

“He was kind of a nuisance,” Father Raphael commented. Clearly, he had no love for the missing priest.

“Father Castiel used to be a model priest,” Father Michael elaborated. “He came highly recommended from his seminary. They told me he was one of their best pupils, and when he arrived, it was easy to see why. I don’t know why he wanted to work here, of all places, but we were glad to have him. He was devout, dedicated. You could tell he loved God more than anything else in the world. He came in early, sometimes before dawn, and he left late, sometimes after midnight. His sermons were inspiring, and the parishioners loved him. They felt like he was really interested in them. Of course, sometimes there were girls who threw themselves at him.” Sam raised an eyebrow. “He was quite a handsome man,” Father Michael clarified. “But he ignored all the attention. Anyway, Father Castiel was like that for years. Then in October, out of the blue, he started to change. 

“He came in one morning and asked us a ton of questions about Dean Winchester. Your brother.” Weird. “It turned out he’d invited Dean to stay with him for a few days.” What? Why would Dean accept an offer to spend a few days living with a _priest_ , of all people? “Then I think he started to get obsessed with your brother.” Obsessed? Sam shivered. “He had this notion that he could help your brother.” Help him? Why? What sort of trouble had Dean been in?

Father Michael narrowed his eyes. “What do you know about your brother’s life?” 

“Uh. Not much,” Sam admitted. “We haven’t talked in years.”

“Okay. So maybe you don’t know this. Dean was kind of the town drunk.” Sam was torn between revulsion and pity. Sounded like Dean had followed in Dad’s footsteps and become an alcoholic. “He went to the bar every night. He slept around. He got in fights. He didn’t seem able to hold down a job.” 

“And he never spoke to his father,” Father Raphael inserted with disapproval.

So Dean had finally stopped putting up with Dad’s shit. Good for him. 

“Anyway,” Father Michael sighed. “For a little bit, it seemed like maybe Father Castiel’s plan, whatever it was, was working. Dean had a job at Bobby Singer’s place.” Bobby. Maybe he knew something. “He didn’t get in any more fights or sleep around. He was rarely drunk. In public, at least.

“But Father Castiel was spending too much time with Dean. He wasn’t as devoted to God as he used to be. He came in later and left earlier. We tried to tell him he needed to take a step back, but he was stubborn. He said Dean was his friend.” Okay. Good. So Dean wasn’t just some random charity case to this Father Castiel. That was something. 

Father Raphael chimed in, “But it became apparent to us that Father Castiel was doing something improper with Dean Winchester. One morning, he came in with a love bite on his neck.”

Suddenly, Sam felt defensive of Dean, though he didn’t know why. “How do you know it was from Dean?” he inquired. 

“What?” Father Raphael asked.

“The love bite. How do you know it was Dean’s?” 

Father Raphael snorted. “It couldn’t have been anyone else’s. He wasn’t all that social. Dean was the only person he hung around with.”

Oh. Then yeah, that sounded pretty definitive. 

Father Michael continued, “We hoped he was just going through a phase, so we didn’t talk to him about it. But the same day your daddy died, I finally brought up the matter with him. He got angry. It scared me. He ripped his collar off, banged his fist on my desk, and threatened me.” He shuddered, and Sam paled. “Then the next thing we knew, he and Dean were gone, and your father was dead.”

“He finally showed his true colors,” Father Raphael uttered. 

Wow. Sam was speechless. If this Father Castiel had such a violent temper, maybe he’d done something to Dean, too. Sam’s fists clenched at the thought.

But could he trust these men? He wanted to ask if there was any truth to the allegations against them and observe their reactions. Maybe that could tell him something. But that probably wouldn’t be appropriate. 

Instead, Sam offered his thanks and left.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Sam headed for his next destination, the police station. When he arrived, he strode up to the front desk and requested to speak to the sheriff. The receptionist asked what his business was and lectured that the sheriff was a busy woman and couldn’t see every single citizen who got the notion to stop by and chat. Sam restrained the urge to roll his eyes at the frustrating woman and informed her of his identity. Her eyes widened, and the sheriff chose that moment to stroll into the reception area. Jody Mills looked just as Sam remembered, excepting the wrinkles around her eyes indicating the passage of time. Her brown hair was cut short, and she stood in her uniform and boots looking badass. Just because she was a woman didn’t mean Sheriff Mills wasn’t intimidating.

“Sheriff,” the receptionist began as she gestured to Sam, “this guy wants to see you, but I told him you were busy, and—” 

“It’s all right, Becky,” Mills interrupted before turning to Sam. “Did I hear you say you were Sam Winchester?”

“Uh. Yeah,” Sam mumbled. 

Mills glanced at Becky then returned her attention to Sam. “I have a few minutes. Come with me.” Sam followed her to her office, which contained a desk, some chairs, file cabinets, and piles of paper strewn everywhere. “Please excuse the mess. Have a seat.” After Sam sat down, Mills commented, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” Sam had a feeling he was going to hear nothing but condolences anytime he went out. 

Mills flashed a small smile. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Um. I was wondering if we could talk about . . . y’know, the case with Dad.” 

Mills narrowed her eyes. “What do you want to know?”

“Um. Well.” He cleared his throat. “Is there any real evidence against Dean? And Castiel Novak?” 

“I am not allowed to discuss that,” Mills declared.

“But—” Sam protested. 

“No. This is an ongoing investigation, and we can’t risk the information leaking out to the public until we’ve gathered all the evidence.”

Sam was hardly going to blab to the press. “I promise, I won’t say anything. I just . . .” Sam swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I just want some answers.” 

Mills’s gaze softened. “I know. I’m sorry, Sam, but there can’t be any exceptions.” Sam sighed, and he was about to thank the sheriff when a woman with long-brown hair stormed into the room.

 “Are you going to do _anything_ to those bastards who hurt my son?!” she yelled at Mills. “Why’re they still out there?!” 

A short-of-breath Becky appeared. “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” she apologized. “I tried to stop her, but she ran right past me.”

“It’s okay,” Mills replied. “You can leave us.” She waved Becky away, and the woman resumed her tirade a second later. 

“You heard what my son said!” she blustered. “Do you know how much that fuckin’ cost him to do?! To talk to you about that shit?”

“I understand, Ms. Braeden—” Mills began in a soft voice. 

“No, I don’t think you do! Why aren’t those sons of bitches locked up? Why aren’t you doing anything about it?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Braeden,” Mills replied. She threw her hands up in a helpless gesture. “My hands are tied. We have to wait until the Vatican sends an investigator.—” 

“Fuck the Vatican!” Her eyes alit on Sam, and she blushed. “Sorry,” she squeaked. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

“Yeah. This is Sam Winchester.” 

Ms. Braeden turned even redder. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Sam assured her. 

She shook her head. “No. It’s not. This is a private matter. How could I be so stupid?” Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want the whole town to know. Please.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Sam promised. The altar boy’s identity should be protected. The harrowing exchange between Ms. Braeden and Mills had cast a shadow over his “innocent until proven guilty” stance. 

“Thank you.” Ms. Braeden sounded so grateful that Sam couldn’t help but grin at her.

“Okay. That’s settled. I’ve got work to do,” Mills announced. “Do you know your way out?”

“Yes,” Ms. Braeden responded, and Sam nodded.

As Sam followed Ms. Braeden to the front door, he toyed with the idea of asking her about Father Castiel. Obviously, she was, or had been, a parishioner at St. Francis’s. Maybe she could provide some perspective about Father Castiel. Would that be too insensitive to bring up?

Possibly. But Sam did it anyway.

“Listen,” he said to her. “Did you know Castiel Novak?”

Ms. Braeden’s smile was rueful. “Yeah. Why?”

“I was wondering if you could tell me a little about him. You know, because of what happened with Dad and all . . . ”

Ms. Braeden paused in the doorway and gazed at him with compassion. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Um. Thanks. Anyway, like I was saying, I’m just trying to put everything together for myself.” Sam’s stomach rumbled. “Maybe we could talk about it over lunch?” God, he hoped she didn’t think he was trying to set up a date.

But based on her expression, she seemed to understand. “Sure. But let’s go to my house. I don’t really want to talk about this stuff in public . . . ” 

“Okay.” Why couldn’t she talk about it in public?

“Okay. You can just, um, follow me. Ben’s at school, so we’ll be able to talk freely.” 

“All right. Thanks, Ms. Braeden.”

Her smile widened. “Call me Lisa.” 

“Okay. Lisa.”

Lisa lived in a cozy-looking white house. Once they were inside, Lisa led Sam through the living room to the kitchen, which was small but sleek, with granite countertops, an island in the center, and pristine wooden walls. A rectangular wooden table stood in a far corner, and Lisa invited Sam to sit down. She rummaged around in the fridge until she found a frozen cheese pizza, which she held up. “Will this work?”

“Of course,” Sam answered. “Because it’s not delivery, it’s DiGiorno.” Lisa laughed at his lame joke and popped the pizza in the oven.

“It’ll be ready in about twenty minutes,” she informed Sam when she joined him at the table. “I met your brother once, you know,” she mentioned.

“Really?”

“Yeah. At the supermarket. You’re taller than him, and he was pretty tall.” She blushed. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice you in the sheriff’s office.”

“That’s all right,” Sam muttered because he didn’t know what else to say. 

“I talked to your brother for only a couple of minutes,” Lisa continued. “He seemed nice. He was shopping with Father Castiel. I’d never seen Father Castiel look so happy. It made me happy, too. Because Father Castiel is . . . it’s hard to describe. He’s amazing, but he didn’t have any friends.

“He was always my favorite priest at St. Francis’s. He was just so caring; it was hard not to love him.” 

“Interesting,” Sam mumbled.

“’Course, when I met your brother, I didn’t realize that they might be, well, more than friends.” Now Sam blushed. As she continued, Lisa shook her head in bewilderment, and her eyes grew abstracted. “He was such a good man, Father Castiel, it’s hard to imagine . . . Not that I think being gay is wrong,” she hastened to add. “It’s just that the guy was so straight-laced. I mean, I don’t think he even drank.” She frowned. “But if they really were together, well, that’s fine by me.” She shrugged. “Father Castiel deserves some happiness.” 

“He didn’t seem like a happy guy to you?” Sam asked.

“He didn’t seem _unhappy_ , but he wasn’t happy, either. I’m not sure how to explain it. It wasn’t something all that noticeable, but if you caught a glimpse of him at the right second, you could see it.” The oven buzzed, and Lisa took out the pizza. 

Hmm. Lisa was giving him intriguing material. It supported some of what the priests had said while contradicting other aspects. From her account, he didn’t seem like the type of person with a heated temper. But just as Father Michael had, she made him sound like a model priest. If Dean and Father Castiel were shopping together, then they were friends at least. Should he believe what Father Raphael had said about the love bite? He still couldn’t fathom the idea of Dean sleeping with a priest.

Sam watched as Lisa cut the pizza and grabbed plates and cups. “What do you want to drink?” she asked. “I’ve got water and Coke.” 

“Water’ll be good,” Sam replied.

A moment later, Lisa set a plate with two pizza slices and a glass of water in front of Sam. Then she brought over her own plate and drink (Coke) and sat down. For a few minutes, they ate in silence, until Lisa spoke. “There’s something I want to tell you.” She dropped her half-eaten slice on her plate and wrung her hands together. “But maybe it wouldn’t appropriate.” 

“What is it?” Sam prompted her.

“Well.” Her hands grew still. “It’s just that—I’m not sure what you think about the thing with your dad. I know what the papers say, and I know everyone thinks your brother and Father Castiel did it, but I—I just can’t believe it. You know how I found out about Ben?” Sam shook his head. “Someone sent me a letter. I don’t know who, but I think it must’ve been Father Castiel. It’s just—I have this feeling. You know?” She brushed away a tear. “He saved my son.” 

Sam absorbed and pondered this information. “If they didn’t do it,” he thought aloud, “then why did they leave town?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But there must be a reasonable explanation.” 

Sam couldn’t think of one. Besides, if this Father Castiel was so great, why had he addressed child molestation with an anonymous letter? Why hadn’t he gone to his superiors? Okay, well, if Michael Archer was in on it, that might not have been such a hot idea. But still, shouldn’t he have done something more decisive than send a letter to Lisa Braeden?

As they finished their meal, they discussed how much the town had changed since Sam had been here. When he left, Sam thanked Lisa for answering his questions and providing lunch. 

xxxxxxxxxx

That night, as Sam lay in bed and grimaced at the scratchy sheets, a scene from long ago played in his mind. 

He’d just learned he’d gotten into Stanford with a full scholarship. In the morning, he showed Dean the letter, and Dean had laughed, all smiles, congratulating him. Even ruffled his hair as Dean had done when he was little. He gave Sam the most heartfelt hug and insisted they celebrate. After school, they went to a movie; then Dean took Sam to his favorite burger joint. He enjoyed his first root beer float in years.

He’d never felt closer to Dean than he had that day. 

But then everything went south.

Sam stressed about how to tell Dad the news, and Dean urged him not to worry about it, asserted that Dad would have to be a nut not to be proud. But that was the thing: Dad _was_ a nut. 

They arrived home at nine o’clock and found John sitting at the kitchen table and staring at the front door when they walked in chuckling. Dad’s face darkened.

“Where the hell have you boys been?” he demanded. Dean froze, his grin disappearing. God, he was twenty-two, and he was acting like Dad was this big scary monster. Sam refused to be intimidated. 

“Celebrating,” Sam answered in a firm voice.

“What the hell do you two have to celebrate?” John sneered as he took a drink from the beer can in front of him. 

“I got a full ride to Stanford.”

“Isn’t that great, Dad?” Dean injected, his tone nervous. 

John banged his fist on the table, and Dean flinched. “What the fuck?!” Dad exclaimed.

“Dad, it’s actually pretty awesome,” Dean replied with a tremor in his voice. 

“You can’t fucking go to Stanford!”

Dean’s face fell. “Why not, Dad?” he pleaded. 

“Because he’s gotta stay here! Help us catch the motherfuckin’ demon that killed Mary!” Dean paled.

“Dad, I’m going to Stanford,” Sam declared. 

“Don’t you give a shit about your mother?”

John had to hear the truth sometime. “The demon’s not real, Dad.” 

John gritted his teeth, fuming. “What did you just say to me, boy?” Sam had never seen him look so frightening. Dean braced himself against the wall.

Sam stood his ground. “The demon. Is not. Real.” 

John threw the half-full beer can at him, and Sam ducked. The can hit the wall behind him, and beer splashed onto the floor and the wall.

“Get. Out,” John hissed. Sam crossed his arms and smirked. John’s hands formed into fists as he continued to glare at Sam. “I said get. Out.” 

“Daddy, please—” Dean begged.

“You stay out of this, boy!” John shouted at him before turning back to Sam. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Get out! And if I ever see you here again, I swear I’ll kill you!” 

In that moment, Sam could see it: John was capable of killing him. If he stayed, Dad would pummel him until he could take it no more. So, Sam retreated. He stayed with a friend for a few more days, until school let out. Then he hitchhiked around, generally wasting time until college started.

Dean didn’t contact him for three months. 

Three fuckin’ months.

And he’d always thought Dean cared. 

When Dean did finally call, he apologized. He claimed that Dad had kept him on a tight leash and he hadn’t been able to escape his notice until then.

Liar. Dad often drank himself into a coma. He couldn’t get in touch during one of those times? 

He hated Dean then. He wanted nothing more to do with him. Those months of silence had hurt too much. He told Dean never to call him again, that if he must talk to him, he could send an email. “Sammy, please!” he’d beseeched Sam. He sounded so pitiful, but Sam wasn’t going to fall for his act. His decision had been final.

As sleep overtook him, Sam wondered whether it had been a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part with Lisa feels off to me, so I hope it works okay. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I appreciate all feedback.


	4. Song of Songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably be the smuttiest chapter of the fic. I'm not that great with writing smut, so I hope it's all right.
> 
> Also, this will probably be the longest chapter of the story. I didn't realize it would get so lengthy . . .
> 
> The events of the last chapter happen during the first day of this chapter.

The pancakes at this diner were terrible, even compared with those at the countless other backwater diners they’d visited. Or maybe Castiel was just tired of pancakes because he’d been eating too many of them, often electing to order pancakes regardless of the time of day. Not that he was a huge fan of pancakes, but they tended to be the cheapest items on the menu, and Castiel thought they should conserve as much money as they could. As he took another bite, he couldn’t help scowling when he bit into something hard. These pancakes were obviously burned. They needed to fire the cook. 

“Maybe you shoulda ordered something else?” Dean suggested. Castiel shook his head as he chewed. For a second, he contemplated not finishing the pancakes, but he was hungry. Dean shrugged as he stared at his eggs and bacon. “Yeah. This food sucks. And if anyone can make bacon taste bad . . . they shouldn’t be in the restaurant business.” He slid his plate aside.

“You’re not going to finish that?” Castiel inquired. He’d never seen Dean turn down food. 

“Nah. You want it?”

“No.” 

Dean sipped his coffee. “At least this’s all right,” he mumbled. Castiel’s teeth ached as he bit into another hard patch. Maybe continuing to eat these pancakes wasn’t such a good idea after all. He carefully placed his fork on the plate, and Dean smiled brightly. “You know what day it is?”

“April sixteenth,” Castiel answered. Had Dean already lost touch with the calendar?

Dean’s grin grew wider. “Yep. Happy birthday, Cas.” His voice was soft, affectionate. 

Castiel gawked at him. “How did you know it was my birthday?” Castiel had never celebrated his birthday; the Angelic Brethren would’ve seen it as frivolous. A birthday was just a fact, the day you were born, no more. He’d never told the date to anyone.

Dean looked smug. “I asked."

Castiel frowned. “I don’t think so. I would remember such a thing.” 

“I think you were too distracted.” Dean appeared to be on the verge of laughter. He joined Castiel on his side of the booth, and a perplexed Castiel scooted over to give him room. The brush of Dean’s lips against Castiel’s skin sent a shiver of pleasure through his body. “It was that one time,” Dean whispered, “when I wouldn’t let you come unless you answered my questions. Remember?”

Castiel could feel his whole body flushing. He did remember that night, though he didn’t remember any of the questions. A delicious, delicious night. 

“I see you do,” Dean observed as he straightened up his posture. “We should do something. Whaddaya think?”

Castiel’s eyes had discovered a family, two parents, two girls, and a boy. There was so much love in that family, a bittersweet sight to him. 

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Dean asked as he followed Castiel’s gaze. When he noticed its subject, he said, “Stop starin’ at the kids, Cas. People’re gonna think you’re creepy.”

Castiel sighed as he tore his eyes away. “It’s just that sometimes I wonder what that would’ve been like. Growing up in a real family. Like them.” 

“I know whatcha mean.” Dean enclosed a hand around Castiel’s and squeezed it. “I can be your family. And you can be mine.”

Castiel’s lips twisted into a smile. “Yes, Dean.” 

“Either of you need a refill?” the waitress, a middle-aged woman with short blonde hair, asked. When she spotted their joined hands, she frowned in disapproval. Dean quickly removed his hand and offered her his most winning smile.

“I think we’re good, thanks,” Dean replied. 

“Well, let me know if you need anything,” she called over her shoulder, her tone acidic, as she stalked away.

“Fuckin’ homophobes,” Dean spat as he returned to his side of the table. Warmth returned to his voice when he resumed his conversation with Castiel. “So. As I said. We should do somethin’. Celebrate.” 

“It’s fine, Dean,” Castiel assured him. “We don’t need to do anything. I have never celebrated my birthday before, and I don’t need to start today.”

Dean gaped at him. “Which is why we need to celebrate. Isn’t that what you said to me on my birthday?” Yes, Castiel did recall saying something like that. Dean toyed with his chi-rho necklace as he continued to speak. “So. Now it’s your turn.” 

“You sure you want to?” Castiel ventured. They had a lot to worry about . . . would it really be prudent to spend the day on a birthday celebration?

“’Course. That’s what boyfriends are for.” Dean suddenly looked embarrassed, but Castiel treasured the sentiment. 

He was Dean’s, and Dean was his. _His_ boyfriend. _His_ lover. And yes, his _soul mate_. The more he thought about it, the more he believed Anna had been right in the pronouncement.

“So, what do ya wanna do?” Dean repeated. 

Castiel mulled over the question. “I think we should do nothing,” he responded with a grin.

“Nothing?” Dean echoed in disbelief. 

“Nothing,” Castiel confirmed. “No driving. No worrying. Just—stay in bed.” Castiel blushed; he knew Dean would understand what he meant. “Somewhere luxurious,” he continued. “A king-sized bed. Just you and me. And when we’re hungry, we’ll order room service.”

Eagerness flooded Dean’s eyes. “Shit, Cas. That sounds awesome.” 

Castiel sighed. “Too bad, we’re, as you would say, in the ass-end of nowhere.”

Dean chortled. “God, Cas. I really have corrupted you, haven’t I?” 

Castiel felt his smile widening. “I don’t mind.” He wanted to clasp Dean’s hand, let their palms rest against each other once again, intertwine their fingers. But that waitress might come back, and maybe the other patrons would look askance at them, too.

“Hey, I know!” Dean exclaimed. “We should go to Vegas. We’re only a coupla hours away.” 

“Las Vegas is a den of iniquity,” Castiel sniffed.

“Exactly!” 

“I don’t want to gamble, Dean,” Castiel protested.

“But I do.” 

“You said we could do what I wanted,” Castiel sulked.

“Oh, how could I resist that adorable face?” Dean teased. 

“Hmm. If we go to Las Vegas,” Castiel realized, “we could probably find a fancy hotel room to spend the day in.”

“Uh-huh.” 

“All right, Dean,” Castiel assented. “Let’s go to Las Vegas.”

“Can I go to the casino?” 

“Not today. Tomorrow.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Only _you’d_ go to Vegas and want to avoid the casinos.” 

Castiel fretted, “But do we have enough money for these plans?”

“Sure we do. We’ve got all our savings, remember?” Dean reddened. “Or your savings, at least. But I can always hustle pool. And I’m sure I can win somethin’ at the casino.” 

Castiel’s pulse tightened with anticipation. “Let’s go. Now.” Dean beamed.

They scurried to the front, paid the bill, and scrambled into the Impala. Dean steered with one hand and rubbed circles on Castiel’s palm with the other. 

xxxxxxxxxx

“Swank-y!” Dean exclaimed when they set foot in the hotel room. The lavishness did boggle the eye: a king-sized bed with an oak headboard, plush taupe carpet, a flatscreen TV embedded in the wall, a minibar, a full-length mirror, a desk and dresser whose wood matched the headboard. As Castiel stood by the door, Dean circled the room, ending his tour with the bathroom. “Dude, you’ve gotta come check out this bathtub!” Dean called. Castiel entered the bathroom and examined it. The walls and floor were composed of checkered black and white tiles, and the sink had a shiny gold faucet. Castiel rested his hand on one of the towels and marveled at how fluffy it was. “Cas,” Dean reminded him. “The bathtub.” 

Castiel took a few steps until he stood next to Dean, their shoulders brushing. He gazed at the wide, deep jacuzzi tub. “We could both fit in there,” he observed.

A mischievous smile blossomed on Dean’s lips. “Yeah. I’m having naughty thoughts.” Castiel blushed, but he couldn’t resist a small grin of his own. 

He left the bathroom, pried off his shoes, and plopped onto the bed while Dean raided the minibar. The mattress was feather-soft, the pillows plump. When he looked up, he caught sight of himself staring down.

“Dude, this minibar is _killer_ ,” Dean concluded. A moment later, he joined Castiel on the bed, his eyes following Castiel’s up to the mirror on the ceiling. “Now that’s just _kinky_!” he guffawed. He caressed Castiel’s lips with his fingertips, and Castiel instinctively opened his mouth, taking Dean’s fingers into it, sucking. “Mmmmmm,” Dean sighed. Castiel agreed. When Castiel finally retracted his lips, Dean sat up, scratching his head, his expression contemplative. “Hey, Cas? Did you bring your priest costume?” 

“I told you before, it’s not a costume—” Castiel objected.

“Yeah, yeah. Did you bring it?” 

Castiel wrinkled his nose. “No. Why would I?”

Dean chewed his lip, and Castiel watched with fascination. “It’s just. Uh. I think you look damn sexy in it.” Dean averted his eyes as a flush traveled up his neck to his cheeks. 

A shot of love surged through Castiel, so strong he wondered why he didn’t burst.

Castiel rolled off the bed, knelt by one of his bags, and dug around in it. “I might have the pants and shirt,” he explained. 

“Nah, never mind,” Dean replied. “It’s not the same without the collar.”

Castiel pulled out a black long-sleeved shirt, and a white collar fell out of it onto the floor. He must’ve left the collar inside the shirt. “Dean,” he announced. “I’ve got the collar.” 

“Hell, yeah. Put it on,” Dean urged.

An idea occurred to Castiel. 

But should he desecrate the priestly attire by using it in such a way?

It was already bad enough to use it for sex. And it wasn’t like he’d never had sex with it on . . . 

But when he examined his conscience about the idea, he found he had no qualms about it, a fact that astonished him.

“I have a better idea,” Castiel declared. 

“What?”

“How about . . . you wear it?” 

“ _What?_ ”

“I’d like to see how you look in it,” Castiel elaborated. 

“Um—” Dean swung his legs around so his feet rested on the floor and he perched on the edge of the bed. Castiel tossed him the shirt, collar, and pants then giggled. “You sure about this? Aren’t you worried about it being, um, sacrilegious?”

“I don’t care.” Castiel couldn’t keep a note of bitterness out of his voice. 

“Cas,” Dean said gently. “If you still . . . well, you shouldn’t let a few bad apples ruin your beliefs.”

“They’re just clothes,” Castiel pointed out. Truth was, Castiel didn’t know what he believed anymore. All he could put his faith in was Dean, and everything else . . . he was lost. 

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Try them on. They might be a little tight—I’m smaller than you—” Castiel became speechless as Dean stripped; he wanted to run his hands over every inch of Dean’s body. He swallowed as Dean donned the priestly garb. When Dean completed the ensemble with the collar, he understood what Dean had meant—for some reason, he looked more breathtaking in the clothes with the collar than without it. His green eyes stood out, as did his freckles. Castiel loved the delicacy of those freckles on a man who exuded toughness. 

“How d’I look?” Dean asked. Castiel didn’t miss the undertone of timidity.

Castiel grabbed his wrist and dragged him to the mirror, resting his chin on Dean’s left shoulder as they studied themselves in it, Dean dressed as a priest, Castiel with jeans and a red-checkered shirt. “Very handsome,” Castiel mumbled against the side of Dean’s neck. Castiel enclosed his arms around Dean’s waist, his hands meeting over Dean’s stomach. Their eyes met in the mirror, and they broke into wide smiles. Castiel leaned around to pepper Dean’s freckles with kisses, knowing that, like him, Dean was watching them in the mirror. When Castiel reached Dean’s lips, he whirled him around so they were facing each other then planted his lips on Dean’s, his tongue exploring the familiar terrain, his whole being consumed by heat. Dean moaned, and Castiel heard mewling sounds emanating from the back of his own throat. He guided Dean to the bed and pushed him onto it, tumbling down with him. 

“You gonna fuck a priest?” Dean said with a smirk. Castiel laughed. Dean threaded a hand through his hair and tugged him farther down, their bodies so close, flush against each other. He could feel Dean’s arousal rubbing against his own.

Castiel divested Dean of his pants and whispered, “I want to be inside you.” He inserted a hand under Dean’s shirt and stroked his back. 

“Mmmm. Yeah, Cas. Inside me. Please.”

Castiel extracted the lube from his pocket while Dean unbuttoned Castiel’s pants and drew them down to his ankles. Castiel kicked them away. He lathered the lube over his fingers as Dean undid the buttons of his shirt, which he shrugged off when Dean was finished. Dean tossed his own shirt to the floor; then they each rid themselves of their boxers, and finally, they were bare in front of each other. Castiel sucked on Dean’s top lip then the bottom one as he pressed his body against Dean’s. He swallowed Dean’s whimpers and sighs before moving on to the clavicle, where he bit down and sucked at the skin and licked tiny droplets of blood. He slathered lube over Dean’s butt then inserted a finger into it, more blood rushing to his penis at Dean’s low guttural moan. Dean’s groans grew louder when Castiel added a second finger, and when the third hit that sweet spot, Dean screamed, and Castiel observed pleasure thrum through his body. With his free hand, he grasped tufts of Dean’s hair and yanked his head backward so he could better see Dean’s countenance. Dean’s eyes were darkened with desire, making the hazel pinpoints stand out amongst the green, an alluring vision. Dean tipped his head an inch farther back and bared his neck to Castiel, freely offering it to him. Castiel licked over the bruises left by John Winchester’s fingers and sucked at them until his mouth felt dry, deliberately obscuring John’s marks with his own as he pushed a fourth finger into Dean. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean whispered, his whole being repeatedly jerking upward.

At this point, he’d usually flip Dean around so he could inject his member from behind. 

But he’d scrutinized Dean’s movements when he’d ridden Castiel the other night, and now he thought he could go in from the front, just as he’d always wanted, envying Dean’s ability to maneuver them so.

Castiel gripped Dean’s shoulders with both hands and gazed intently down at him, preparing for the attempt. 

“Cas?”

“Shh,” Castiel urged. “I’m concentrating.” 

“Concentrating on wha—Oh, fuck!” Dean’s pitch rose with the last two words. Castiel had finally figured out how to achieve his objective, and he couldn’t help smiling to himself. “Shit, Cas,” Dean laughed. “Fuck. Now move, will ya?” He wrapped his legs around Castiel, scraping nails over his back, and the added contact engulfed Castiel, and now he was drowning in hunger, in want, in _need._

 “Gladly.” With the first thrust, he enveloped his hand around the tip of Dean’s penis, stroking it in fluid motions. With the other hand, he once again reached for Dean’s hair, relishing its softness. His eyes stayed glued to Dean’s as the pupils dilated, growing almost impossibly large. Castiel maintained a languid pace as he shoved farther into Dean. 

“Arrgh,” Dean grunted. “You’re killin’ me, Cas. Faster.”

He grazed his lips over Dean’s, the contact barely there. “Shhhh,” he said in a low voice. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that this is an art.” 

A tongue popped out of Dean’s mouth, wetting his lips. “Faster. Please.” His phallus pulsed at the sound of Dean’s whining.

The sight of his tongue had evoked a thirst, and Castiel slaked it, crashing his lips onto Dean’s, trapping Dean’s tongue with his, their bodies now sliding against each other so that his whole world was Dean.

That was all the impetus he needed to speed up. 

He cherished the growing intensity and volume of Dean’s cries as he drove deeper, burying all of himself into Dean, Dean pushing up into him in perfect time. Dean’s semen leaking onto his hand, onto the bed. Castiel glanced up at the mirror, at the dance of their writhing bodies, and yes, it was a work of art, and he emptied himself into Dean, nonsensical sounds dripping from his lips, and they collapsed against each other, breathing heavily.

xxxxxxxxxx 

He didn’t know how long they lay on the bed, Dean’s head against his shoulder, Castiel’s hand caressing up and down Dean’s back. He marveled at the copious amount of sweat that lingered on both their bodies.

His life was so unlike what it had been a year ago, he reflected. On his last birthday, he’d spent the night at St. Francis’s. If you’d told him then that a man of Dean’s reputation would radically alter his life, he would’ve been incredulous. But Dean really had changed everything for him, and he suspected the opposite was true as well. 

He removed his arm, stretched it out next to Dean’s, and examined their limbs. Their bodies were so different; it fascinated him. His skin was pale, while Dean’s was tan; he was all sinew and bone, while Dean was all muscle. Yet they were both covered in scars.

Dean flicked his eyes to him. “What’s so interesting?” 

“You and me,” Castiel answered.

“Hmm.” He bit his bottom lip as he thought then retreated a couple of inches from Castiel, his head sinking into a pillow. “Y’know. I used to be such a man-whore.” His eyes sought Castiel’s. “Does that bother you?” 

Where had that come from? “No. Why should it?”

“I just. I dunno.” He picked at his fingernails. 

He kissed Dean’s brow. “I love you the way you are.”

“Hmm.” 

“What did you tell them? When they saw your scars.”

Dean barked out a short laugh. “I said they were from bar fights. They believed me. What with my stellar reputation and all.” Dean bounded off the bed. “I’ve got somethin’ to give ya.” He rummaged around in his duffel bag. A minute later, he returned to the bed with a photograph that he placed face down on the sheets. “Hold out your hand.” Castiel obeyed, and Dean raised a fist several inches above Castiel’s hand. “Your present,” he announced as he opened his hand, a gold necklace dangling from his fingers. A cross swept across Castiel’s palm, and as the necklace flowed from Dean’s hand into Castiel’s, Dean mentioned, “It was Mom’s.” 

Castiel heard his own sharp intake of breath. “Dean,” he said, awed. “I cannot accept this.”

Dean’s shoulders drooped. “Why not?” 

“It was your mother’s . . . you should keep it.” He knew Dean had precious few mementoes of Mary Winchester.

Dean closed Castiel’s fingers around it. “I want you to have it.” His eyes were pleading. “Please?” 

Castiel nodded, and when Dean removed his hand, he put the necklace on, watching Dean fidget with his chi-rho as he did so. The cross hit the top of his sternum. “It must’ve been long on her,” he commented.

Dean grinned, his soul exuding fondness. “Yeah.” He picked up the picture. “Have I ever showed her to you?” Castiel shook his head. He flipped the photograph over and passed it to Castiel. 

Castiel studied the Winchester family. They looked normal. A younger, smiling John Winchester, a little boy who had to be Dean. The woman held a baby, obviously Sam. He inspected Mary last. Long blonde hair, lively blue eyes. “She’s beautiful, Dean,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, the single syllable filled with love. He took the photo from Castiel and stowed it back into his bag. “Enough chick flick moments,” he gibed as he stood up. “How about a drink?” 

xxxxxxxxxx

This was paradise. Here in this room, food strewn about the bed, huddled under the covers with Cas, each man wearing only boxers, cradling Cas’s head in the crook of his arm while they watched a new episode of _Dr. Sexy_. Maybe it was kind of a sissy thing, liking cuddling so much, but who the fuck cared? He idly tapped his fingers on Cas’s shoulder as Dr. Piccolo confronted Dr. Sexy about a one-night stand he’d had with his ex-wife. The episode ended with Dr. Piccolo breaking her engagement with Dr. Sexy by throwing her ring at him in one of the hospital’s hallways. 

“Eh, they’ll get back together,” Dean proclaimed.

Castiel frowned. “You’re probably right. Though I don’t understand why. She’d be better off without him.” 

“What?” Blasphemy! “They belong together.”

“But he treats her terribly.” 

“But he’s Dr. Sexy, for cryin’ out loud,” Dean argued. “Besides, she’s not exactly blameless. What about that time she slept with Lawrence?”

“Their relationship is unhealthy. Unlike ours.” He added the last two words archly. 

“Damn, Cas, you sure know how to get a man hot and bothered,” he pretended to grumble. Desire pulsed through him. “I think it’s time we had a bath.”

“Yes.” Cas’s lips quirked upward, the movement barely perceptible to the average person, but Dean couldn’t miss it. 

He grew pensive. Last year, what would he have thought if he’d been told he’d fall in love with a man, and not just any man at that, but a nerdy priest? It would’ve sounded absurd. But now he couldn’t imagine life without Cas.

And his blushes, like the one that painted itself over Cas now . . . he remembered being astounded that a man could blush so easily. It’d been the spark that lit his affection, and he’d enjoyed teasing Cas just to bring that pretty redness to his face. Hell, he still relished that. 

And how could anyone forget those eyes? So wide, so blue. So intense that they’d sometimes frightened him. Still occasionally did. Shadowed by those long lashes.

Dean stood up and held his hand out to Cas. “C’mon.” Cas accepted the proffered palm, his movement lithe as he joined Dean. For the umpteenth time, he admired Cas’s natural grace. He pulled Cas to the bathroom and released his hand once they’d entered, bending down to turn on the water. He adjusted the handles until the water reached the perfect temperature. Once the tub was full, he gestured to it and pronounced, “You first.” 

Cas’s mouth twitched. “No. You. It was _your_ idea.”

Dean shrugged, tossed off his boxers, and sank into the tub. “Ahhh,” he sighed as he leaned against one of the massaging jets. “I could come just from this.” 

“Must you be so crude?” Cas responded as he stepped into the tub and lowered himself across from Dean.

“You know me.” He hooked an ankle around one of Cas’s, bumping their calves together. “C’mere.” 

Cas unwrapped the hotel soap and swept it over an arm. “Maybe we should actually get clean,” Cas replied, a faux oblivious air about him. “This is probably the best bath we’ll have for weeks.”

Dean chuckled. _As if this tub isn’t about to get filthy_. He reached for Cas’s wrist and wrenched him closer, the bar of soap splashing into the water. “I said,” Dean repeated in a voice that would tolerate no opposition, “to c’mere.” 

Cas bit his lip, his body tightening. He cupped Dean’s cheek with a hand, skimming his thumb along Dean’s jawline. When the finger paused on his bottom lip, Dean pulled it into his mouth with his teeth, sucking the flesh. Cas’s essence mixed with a hint of soap. After several minutes, he released the thumb.

He ghosted his own fingertips over Cas’s jawline then bit at a corner, teeth and tongue devouring it. No taste of soap this time, thank God. Just pure, sweet Cas, in the vein of both skin and stubble. With the hand he’d clapped on Cas’s shoulder, he felt his lover’s muscles melt. His lips traversed the skin until they arrived at the corner of Cas’s lips, nipping there before gorging on the lips, tongue insinuating itself into Cas’s mouth, reveling in every nook and cranny. He swore Cas was positively _purring_ under him. He gripped both of Cas’s shoulders and pushed him against the side of the tub, molding their bodies together in the same motion. Dean moaned, and Cas purred loudly, body arcing upward. 

He rutted against Cas, his pace frantic. When he relinquished Cas’s lips to take a breath, Cas whimpered, “Dean. Please.”

Dean loved seeing Cas like this, lust-blown eyes in a man so innocent. Begging. “Yeah?” he responded, feigning ignorance. 

“I need,” Cas panted.

Dean smirked. “Need what?” 

“ _You_ , Dean,” he answered in that damn sexy gravelly voice, puffs of breath hitting Dean’s lips.

Dean pushed a finger into Cas’s asshole, evoking a moan. He slowly explored the familiar territory with that one finger. “Hurry,” Cas urged. “I need.” 

“My cock?” Dean leered.

“Yes, Dean,” he gasped as Dean added another finger inside Cas. 

With the fourth finger, Cas’s spasm informed him he’d hit the prostate. When he felt sure Cas was ready, he inserted his dick, Cas groaning at the sensation. As he burrowed farther inward, Cas pressed upward, but Dean stilled him, pinning him against the tub with firm hands, nails digging into his shoulders, ensuring Cas couldn’t move. He loved Cas like this, completely at his mercy. “You’re mine,” Dean growled.

“I’m yours,” Cas confirmed. Damn. So wanton. Dean thrust faster, Cas clenching his teeth to keep from crying out. But a gasp slipped through; then came the uncontrolled keening, a chorus of incomprehensible sounds emanating from both him and Cas. They came simultaneously, Dean’s assault on Cas’s prostate enough to preclude any need for stimulating Cas’s cock. 

“Oh, Dean,” Cas breathed through his shudders.

Dean kissed his temple, his hair. “Love ya, Cas,” he mumbled. 

“The feeling is mutual,” Cas whispered. Dean’s lips curled up into a tender smile.

Milky water surrounded them. They’d need to take real baths soon. 

But not yet. He reclined against the side of the tub and drew Cas to him, enveloping his arms around Cas’s torso, his back pressed against Dean’s chest, Dean’s legs spread-eagled around him. Cas rested his head against Dean’s left shoulder, and Dean propped his chin on Cas’s head, pondering how strange his life had become.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Their table was a sleek, polished ebony, one of many in this crowded upscale restaurant. Dean and Cas nursed girly drinks and picked at overpriced appetizers. The establishment was filled with well-dressed douchebags who sneered at the flannel- and denim-clad men who dared to share the space with them.

This was lunch. Earlier, Dean had prowled around the casino, trying his hand at various pursuits. It would’ve been more fun at night, but oh, well. Cas had been surprised Dean hadn’t wanted to gamble more, but, as he’d told Cas, you had to quit while you were ahead. He had earned a sizeable sum. Besides, he could sense Cas’s obvious boredom, and that had put a damper on things. 

Now, Dean unfurled a map on the table and studied their possibilities. “I think we should go to Canada,” Dean mused.

“Canada?” Cas echoed. 

“Yeah. Get out of the country, you know. Lower the chances of us getting caught.” Cas blanched at the last two words.

“But, Dean. How would we travel across the border? As I understand it, that is difficult to do without valid passports. Perhaps we should head for Mexico instead. If we leave the country, that is.” 

“Hmm. I think we should definitely leave the country. But Mexico? Nah. Canada’s nicer.”

“I cannot argue with that.” 

Dean produced a highlighter he’d found lying around a diner a few days ago. Why the fuck did it have to be pink? Whatever. He frowned in concentration as he traced a plausible route. “It’ll probably take a coupla days to get there. We have time to figure it out.” He tapped the end of the highlighter against the map. The most promising route trailed through a patch of nowhere in Montana, the only town a place called Angel Falls. Maybe they could stay a night there. Cas eyed the map where Dean had poised the highlighter.

“We can’t go through Angel Falls, Dean,” he objected. 

Dean glanced up. “What? Why?”

“It’s . . . ” Cas’s voice grew quiet. “It’s where the Brethren are located.” 

The flicker of fear in Cas’s eyes made Dean feel as if he’d been punched in the gut. His hands formed into fists. “I want to tear them a new one,” he hissed. “For what they did to you.” He squeezed Cas’s hand.

Cas froze. “There’s too many of them. They’ll kill you.—” 

“Relax, Cas. We’ll avoid it. We’ll stay at least two hundred miles away.”

Cas nodded. “That would be good.” He paused. “Besides, they’re not all bad.—” 

“What?”

“It’s just the Next Level. The Elders. Uriel. The majority of the population . . . they have no idea what those above them do.” 

“Mmm.” Fuck. If only there was a damn eraser for highlighters. He marked a different path, one that bypassed Montana and crossed into Canada from Boundary County, Idaho.

xxxxxxxxxx 

After lunch in Vegas, they drove all day and night, then all day again, alternating who took the wheel while the other one slept. Eventually, they were both too tired to drive, so they decided to stop for the night. Besides, they needed to figure out how they were going to enter Canada. They found the cheapest, most run-down motel in some town called Sandpoint, located in northern Idaho. Cas stared at the faint black streaks on the walls, revolted. Dean threw his bags on the worn-out carpet and pulled down the blankets on one of the double beds. Much to his embarrassment, he yelped when he noticed a mysterious brown stain on the once-white sheets. Cas sharply turned to look at him. “We’re sleepin’ in the other bed,” Dean announced. Cas nodded. Dean pointed at the stain. “What d’ya think that is?” he asked.

Cas walked over, his shoulder bumping against Dean’s. His eyes raked over the bed. “I don’t know,” he decided. “It reminds me of dried blood.” An involuntary gagging noise emanated from Dean’s throat. “I miss Las Vegas,” Cas sighed. 

“Me, too.”

Cas retrieved a bottle of water he’d set on the desk, which was scored with scratches. To Dean, they looked like claw marks. He inwardly shivered at the thought. Cas unscrewed the cap on his water, took a sip, and made a face. “It’s too warm,” he explained. He disappeared into the bathroom and returned a moment later with a tan bucket containing a plastic bag. “I’m going to get some ice.” 

Dean sat on the (relatively) cleaner bed, leaning back against the pillows, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles, not bothering to take off his boots. “Okay.”

Cas bent down and kissed Dean on the brow. “I’ll be right back.” 

After Cas closed the door, Dean picked up the remote from the table between the beds and switched on the TV. He flipped channels but found nothing of interest. Eventually, he settled on some nature documentary on the Discovery Channel. At least Cas would enjoy that shit.

Time ticked by. 

Five minutes. Cas still wasn’t back.

Ten minutes. Cas still wasn’t back. 

Fifteen minutes. Cas still wasn’t back.

A foreboding settled in his stomach. “How long does it take to get some damn ice?” he muttered to himself. He shuffled out the door and to the space at the end of the row of rooms. He discovered an ice machine and vending machines, but no Cas. He paced the length of the motel, back and forth then back and forth again. Nothing. “Cas?” he called, unable to keep a note of panic out of his voice. “Cas? Where are you, man? Cas?” 

He felt a hand snake around his shoulders, and he turned, relieved and ready to lecture Cas about how he shouldn’t scare him like that, but instead he found himself facing an unfamiliar face, a towel shoved against his mouth and nose.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean’s eyes fluttered open, his vision bleary. He was slumped in the backseat of a van, Cas lying unconscious to his right. What the fuck was going on? 

The world spun around him as he maneuvered himself into a sitting position. The man who’d ambushed him with the cloth of chloroform was driving; another man was in the front passenger seat.

“Who the fuck are you guys?” Dean demanded. Both heads swerved to face him; then the driver looked back at the road. 

“Put him back to sleep,” the driver ordered.

The man in the passenger seat climbed into the back, grabbed a swatch of Dean’s hair, and yanked him forward. Another rag slammed into his face, and the world became dark once more. 

xxxxxxxxxxx

When Dean next woke up, he was draped across a metal chair. A woman with short brown hair and cold blue eyes stood directly across from him, her arms folded. The two men from the van flanked her on either side. 

Dean’s eyes darted around the room, but he didn’t spot Cas anywhere. “Where’s Cas?” he asked. The trio merely continued to stare at him. “I said, where’s Cas?” he yelled, his lips trembling.

The woman glanced at the driver. “Dose him, Ion,” she commanded. 

Ion rushed forward, produced a needle from God knew where, and jammed it into Dean’s left temple. Dean clutched at the puncture wound, a trickle of blood coating his fingers. “Son of a bitch!” he screamed, his head pounding. “What the fuck was that?!”

“Watch your language, Dameal,” the woman commanded. 

What had she just called him? “The name’s Dean, bitch,” he spewed.

“And my name is Naomi, you insolent man,” the woman retorted. “I see I’m going to have to teach you some manners. Among other things.” 

Naomi . . . why did that name sound familiar?

Oh, yeah. Cas had once said something about a Naomi. About how she was the teacher for the Brethren. 

 _Fuck_. How had those bastards found them?

xxxxxxxxxx 

Castiel had left to procure ice, and the next thing he knew, he was sprawled out on a hard floor. He massaged his sore neck and stumbled to his feet. 

He was in an all-too-familiar room.

Perhaps this was another one of his nightmares. 

But no, this was different.

“Good morning, Castiel,” the man behind the desk said. 

A bald man with a cruel smile.

“Zachariah?” Castiel responded. 

Zachariah’s grin widened. “I see you remember me.”

Castiel examined the room around him. Hester and Inias guarded the door. This was Uriel’s office, but Uriel wouldn’t let anyone else sit behind his desk. “Where’s Uriel?” he inquired. 

Zachariah shrugged. “Dead. Heart attack. Last week. God chose me. I run the show now.”

Castiel shrank at the words. Zachariah was worse than Uriel, sadistic. With the news, Castiel retained not a sliver of hope. 

But why was he here? He and Dean had stayed far away from this place. “How did you find me?” he asked.

“We’ve been looking for you. You were seen in Utah, and we sent agents all over to comb the surrounding area. Of course, it helped that your lover drives a most distinctive car.” 

“Why?” he whispered. He’d known enough to avoid Angel Falls, but he hadn’t known that the Brethren were actively searching for him. In Kansas, Hester had said Uriel didn’t want to bother with him.

But this wasn’t Uriel. 

“God has spoken,” Zachariah answered. “You are to be damned. By Dameal.”

Castiel didn’t recognize the name. “Who’s Dameal?” 

“Your lover.”

“What?” he gasped. They had Dean, too? Why? 

“He’s our experiment. Commissioned by God. We will make him into our most zealous convert, and when we do, he will damn you.”

Make him a convert? Experiment with him? _No_. They were going to hurt Dean. That’s what Zachariah meant. It wasn’t fair. This was his fault. If Dean had never met Castiel, he wouldn’t be in this situation. 

“Please don’t do anything to Dean,” he beseeched Zachariah. “Punish me if you must. Damn me. But not Dean.” His voice cracked. “He’s done nothing wrong.” A tear escaped from the corner of his eye.

Zachariah raised his eyebrows then laughed. An ominous sound. “Touching. But he is a homosexual. That is sin enough. Besides. I’ve heard that you two killed his father.” He tsked. “Naughty. Evil. Both of you. We will save him. But it’s too late for you, I’m afraid.” He eyed Hester and Inias. “Lock him up,” he directed. 

Hester and Inias each grasped an arm and dragged him to a barn that had been converted into a jail.

He didn’t resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dameal is an angel of Tuesday, according to [this site](http://www.angelassignmentstm.com/angel-names-a-g.html) and a couple of other ones. I wanted to choose an angel name that began with a "D."
> 
> Things are going to get a bit harrowing for Dean and Castiel, but remember, there will be a happy ending. The next chapter is Sam's, though.
> 
> And of course, thanks for reading! This fic wouldn't exist without all you wonderful readers out there!


	5. The Wages of Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There's some self-harm-like activity in this chapter.
> 
> The first night here would correspond with the first day Cas and Dean are driving in the previous chapter. The second day here is the same one as the last day in the previous chapter.

Sam had hit a dead end. He didn’t know how to continue conducting his investigation. He should’ve thought this through more thoroughly before coming down here, but he’d wanted to take advantage of his week off.

He’d just had dinner with Brady and a few other old high school friends. It had been nice to catch up with everyone, but that wasn’t why he was here. 

He missed Jess.

At supper, he’d learned that most townspeople held one of three attitudes toward recent events. The majority thought Castiel Novak and the other priests were all guilty of the respective accusations thrown against them and bemoaned how fucked-up the Catholic Church was (or St. Francis’s, at least). A sizeable sum believed Novak was guilty and, in an attempt to downplay his role in John Winchester’s murder, had concocted the child-molestation story about Michael Archer and Raphael Ingalls. Then there were a handful, like Lisa Braeden, who felt Novak was innocent while the other two priests were guilty. No one seemed to comment much on Dean’s role; almost everyone assumed that he and Novak were lovers. Those who blamed Novak for John’s death also claimed Dean was an accomplice. Those who had kinder words to say about Novak (but still thought him guilty) theorized that Dean had corrupted the once godly man. Archer hadn’t been kidding when he’d said Dean had a notorious reputation. 

The shock value of a priest engaging in a romantic relationship with someone like Dean, though, seemed to overshadow everything else amongst the gossips.

Everyone went around mourning the fate of “poor John Winchester.” The reclusive former Marine who’d “made his country proud.” None of them had even _known_ Dad, for Christ’s sake. If they had, maybe they wouldn’t be molding him into a tragic figure. 

Bobby Singer was the only person who’d associated with John during the last twenty-five-odd years.

Again, he wondered if he should try contacting Bobby. If anyone knew about Dean and Novak, it would be him. 

But the idea of talking to Bobby made him apprehensive. Bobby was Dad’s friend. All those years visiting John and his sons, and he’d never suspected anything out of the ordinary. Once, when he was eight, Sam had contemplated telling Bobby about how John treated his children, but he’d made the mistake of informing Dean, and Dean had insisted they keep the truth from Bobby.

Still, with all the time he’d spent around them, Bobby should’ve noticed _something_. The way Dean had limped that one time. Dean’s black eye. Sam’s split lip. 

But maybe his resentment was unfair. When Bobby did comment on something, John would say his sons had been roughhousing. Dean would confirm these lies, and eventually Dean even started concocting his own stories.

Sam told Jess all these things as he lounged in the motel bed. 

“I know it’s hard, babe. I’m sorry,” Jess commiserated after Sam finished griping about Bobby.

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. 

“So things down there are at a standstill?”

“I think so.” 

“What’re you gonna do if you haven’t found anything when the week’s over?”

“I dunno. Go home.” 

“I miss you. Mariana does, too. Wanna talk to her?”

“Yeah, put her on.” A second later, he heard Mariana’s loud babbles on the other side of the line. He imagined how adorable she must look shouting “dada” into the phone, a pink ribbon in her hair, black dress, little white shoes on her feet. Jess enjoyed dressing her up, and she’d carefully picked out the clothes for the trip to Garth’s. Sam wiped away a tear. He hadn’t realized how much he missed his baby daughter. 

“I think that means she loves you,” Jess giggled when she returned to the phone.

“Tell her I love her, too.” 

“Hear that?” Jess cooed. “Daddy says he loves you.” Mariana laughed. “I hope you find something soon,” she resumed.

“Yeah, me, too.” 

“Talk to you later, Sam.”

“Bye, Jess. I love you.” 

“Love you, too, babe.”

And just like that, Sam was alone. Defeated. He’d traveled all this way and found no answers. Instead, he’d found regrets. Regret that he’d estranged himself from Dean. As they said, you didn’t know what you had until it was gone. 

But tomorrow was a new day.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Morning jogs invigorated Sam. Just as he had during the past few days, he picked up breakfast and a newspaper while he was out. The paper never seemed to have anything novel to say, but you never knew. He needed to stay abreast of town matters. 

Still nothing informative about Dean and Novak. An opinion column about the need for reform in the Catholic Church. Now there was something: The Vatican’s investigator would arrive tomorrow. Father Gabriel Goodwin. A goofy-looking man with brown hair. Another editorial speculating about Goodwin’s visit. Apparently, he was a surprising choice given his reputation for unconventionality.

After reading everything that interested him, Sam dropped the newspaper next to his water bottle. Later, he’d take them to a shopping center with recycling bins. He dressed himself in jeans and a T-shirt and mentally prepared himself for what he planned to do today 

It had come to him last night while he was on the verge of sleep. His next move would be to venture inside Dean and Novak’s house. That meant breaking in, but he could do it. Dad had taught him how to pick locks, and he could use that skill. He would’ve never thought he’d thank Dad for any of the crap he’d learned from him, but he did now.

Would the place be surrounded by yellow tape? God, hopefully the police wouldn’t be there. 

 _Stop psyching yourself out_ , he told himself.

Pulling into the house’s driveway might arouse suspicion, so he parked a couple of blocks away. He surveyed the neighborhood as he walked to Dean and Novak’s house. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, thankfully. No doubt everyone was at work. 

When he arrived at the house (devoid of yellow tape, it turned out, but there was an old Honda Civic in the carport), he peered around once again, and when he was satisfied that no one was nearby, he jiggled the door open. He shut the front door and discovered he’d stepped into a small kitchen. It contained a wooden table and state-of-the-art appliances. The priest must like to cook. He peeked into the refrigerator and discovered fruits, vegetables, cheeses, and juices. And beer. Sam couldn’t help smiling to himself; that had to be Dean’s. But the smile turned into a frown when he remembered Archer saying Dean was an alcoholic. The priest had evidently indulged him. In the freezer, he found slabs of frozen meat and Hot Pockets. Again, the latter must’ve been Dean’s. The pantry held loads of junk food with a few healthy snacks scattered here and there. Whatever the two had shared, it certainly hadn’t been their palates.

He passed through the living room without glancing around, eager to inspect Dean’s room. He entered the first bedroom he encountered and scanned the interior. A queen-sized bed, a brown comforter pulled to the top. Two fluffy pillows in white cases. Beside the bed, a wooden bookcase with two shelves. He examined the books crammed into the structure. Mostly of a religious nature, some copies of ancient texts, some scholarly. This must be the priest’s room, then. Dean definitely wouldn’t read anything like that. To his surprise, he noticed tomes about religions other than Christianity. Philosophy books, several history books, and a few novels rounded out the collection. Sam itched to flip through the books, but he restrained himself. He wasn’t here for that. 

On the other side of the bed was an end table upon which stood a digital alarm clock. Papers filled with elegant handwriting cluttered the desk. The chest of drawers was mostly empty. The top drawer did contain a ridiculous amount of collars, however. He checked out the closet, which was only half-full. Many pairs of black pants and a couple of worn-out jeans. Enough black long-sleeved shirts to go with the black pants and some faded T-shirts. The priest had planned his departure from town, then, and he’d packed all essential clothes.

If this bedroom was Novak’s, then the other one was Dean’s. In there, the bed was also made up, but the comforter was red, though the pillowcases were white like Novak’s. Sam lay on the bed and imagined Dean sleeping where he was now. He felt an eerie closeness to his brother. And wow, was this memory foam? How had Dean been able to afford memory foam? 

His eyes scoured the surroundings. He spotted two empty picture frames laying flat atop the dresser. With a pang, Sam realized which photos Dean must’ve placed in the frames. One portrayed all four members of the Winchester family before Mom had died. The other showed him with Sam after Sam had won the state science fair in eleventh grade. Dean had been as proud of the accomplishment as Sam, even if he had incessantly teased Sam afterward for his nerdiness. For the second time during this trip, Sam mentally kicked himself for his rash response to Dean’s belated phone call all those years ago.

Sam stood up, his foot landing on some of the dirty laundry littering the floor. Unlike the priest, Dean was a slob. No surprise there. Wads of receipts were scattered over the desk. As in Novak’s room, the chest of drawers and closet had been substantially emptied. So, Dean’s disappearance had been planned as well. 

Finished with Dean’s room, Sam decided to take a closer look around the living room. He studied the ornate mirror hanging above the sofa, complete with filigree and fleurs-de-lis. Clearly the priest’s, as it certainly wasn’t to Dean’s taste. He tested out the couch and found it comfortable. A recliner was nearby, and two end tables bookended the sofa. On the one to his right, he noticed an object that gave him pause and picked it up. A model replica of the same Impala Dean drove. Black, too. He grinned as he gently put it back.

On the coffee table in front of him, two more objects of interest. 

iPhones. Which one was Dean’s? The older one, he guessed. He fidgeted with it as he wondered whether he could crack the code. Sam tried out his birthday first, and voila, it worked. The pathos of it slammed into him. Dean had used _Sam’s_ birthday to unlock his phone. It brought a tear to Sam’s eye.

First, he scrolled through Dean’s stored numbers. Not many. Anna, Bobby, Cas (that must be what Dean called the priest), Charlie, and Dad. Sam felt a sliver of disappointment at the last one. So, Dean hadn’t completely extricated himself from Dad after all. And who was Anna? Charlie? 

He opened Dean’s text messages, which made him feel dirty, but this might be the only way he’d find some answers. It seemed “Cas” was the only person he ever texted. He read through the last few messages the two had exchanged:

__

> _Thank God Anna’s gone. Can’t wait to fuck you all night._

“Anna’s gone”? What did that mean? Had this Anna been living with them? Or did Dean mean Anna had left town?

__

> _Must you be so crass?_

Sam couldn’t hold in a small laugh.

> _
> 
> Shut up, Cas. You know you want it.
> 
> _

> Yes. ;)

The last message had been sent the day before the pair had vanished: 

> _I’m sorry, Dean. Good-bye._

What did that mean? What was Novak apologizing for? Killing John Winchester? Sam felt a chill at the thought. 

“Good-bye.” That indicated an intent to leave Dean. Had he? Had Dean gone to look for him? Or had they taken off together?

According to the phone, Dean’s last conversation had been with Bobby. Again, the day before he and Novak had departed. 

This reinforced the notion that Bobby knew something. Maybe not every single detail, but he had to have an inkling about what had been going on with those two.

He navigated to the photos and discovered a video, which he played: 

_A shot of the back of a man’s head, filled with thick brown hair. A black shirt, black pants. Dean’s voice. “Whatcha makin’, Cas?”Shot of a skillet._

_The shot moved to the man’s face, the priest’s collar now visible. As well as blue eyes._

Sam’s blood ran cold. He recognized that man, and he paused the video to think. This was who those strange people in Angel Falls had been looking for. They’d said he murdered somebody.

So this guy had killed before.

And here he had been living as a priest in a town filled with unsuspecting innocents who could become ensnared in his clutches. 

Like Dean.

What if he’d killed Dean? 

No. He wouldn’t allow himself to think like that. Dean probably wasn’t dead.

Right? 

He resumed the video:

_“Chicken curry,” the priest replied.._

_“Smells delicious.” Dean._

_Both men filled the frame for a moment, Dean pointing his phone at the pair as he threw an arm around the priest’s shoulders. “Is this the most gorgeous guy in the world or what?” Dean commented._

Sam felt an unexpected stab of jealousy. He’d rarely seen Dean look so happy. And who’d brought it out? This duplicitous priest.

He froze the frame and studied Dean’s features. He didn’t look old, but he’d aged since Sam last saw him. New worry lines adorned his forehead and the corners of his eyes. 

He played the rest of the video.

_Dean backed away, and only Novak stayed in the picture. He tilted his head._

A curious action, Sam thought.

 _After a few seconds, the priest smiled and countered, “No, Dean._ You’re _the most gorgeous man in the world.”_  

_“Aw. You just want in my pants.” The camera was pointed at a wall. Groans. Then the priest again, his lips swollen, presumably from being kissed. “That’s all right,” Dean continued. “I want in your pants, too.” His voice dropped as he articulated a one-word promise. “Later.”_

_“You are_ not _filming that,” Novak responded. Dean’s chuckle. Then the video cut off._  

Well, Sam had learned one thing. Novak and Dean had definitely been carrying on a sexual relationship. The evidence left no doubt about that.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Sam finally convinced himself to put his hesitations aside and call Bobby. However, after five attempts throughout the day, Bobby still hadn’t answered. Sam even left a message explaining the situation. Was Bobby intentionally avoiding him? If so, why? Was he mad at Sam? Or did he have something to hide?

He toyed with the idea of contacting the bearers of the two unfamiliar names in Dean’s phone, but that would be awkward. What would he say? Oh, I don’t know you, but I found your names in my brother’s phone and wondered if maybe you knew something about him and Father Castiel Novak and why they’d left town? Yeah, no. The possibility that these Anna and Charlie characters knew anything seemed remote, anyway. 

Though maybe not. Had Dean been close with them? He’d been close with the other three individuals in his phone: he worked with Bobby, and Dad, well, that connection was obvious. Then that priest who he’d evidently dubbed “Cas.” Sam couldn’t stop thinking about how affectionately Dean had pronounced the nickname in the video. It still stunned him.

Now, his investigation had stalled again. But his gut told him Bobby could change that. 

If he couldn’t get Bobby on the phone tomorrow, Sam would ambush Bobby at his shop. Perhaps not the best place to talk about Dean and Novak, but it might be his only option.

Sam dreaded spending another night in his motel room staring at the TV, and he could use a drink. For dinner, he finished the salad left over from lunch; then he headed to a bar situated a block away from the Lamplighter Inn.

He didn’t recognize anyone in the establishment, which was a relief. He was tired of idle chitchat with old acquaintances. Not to mention the constant condolences. He settled himself on a stool and ordered a beer, letting his mind lapse into blessed nothingness as he relaxed. As he started on his second drink, someone called his name. 

“Sam? Sam Winchester, is that you?”

He swerved around to face the owner of the voice. “Ruby?” 

“Oh, my God, it’s been ages!” she squealed. She gestured to a woman standing next to her. “This is Meg.”

Meg extended a hand, and Sam shook it. “Nice to meet you. Sam,” she mumbled. Sam wondered why she sounded so surly. 

“Nice to meet you, too, Meg,” Sam replied.

Ruby turned to Meg. “Sam and I used to date in high school.” 

Sam had gone out with Ruby Demme during the first few months of eleventh grade. Ruby had been his first big crush, and he’d spent weeks agonizing over how to ask her out. When she’d said yes, he began hanging out with Ruby’s crowd. Ruby and he were constantly at each other’s side. He’d lost his virginity to Ruby. She hadn’t been a virgin, but Sam hadn’t cared about that. He’d been amazed that Ruby, the love of his life (or so he thought at the time), would even sleep with him.

She’d had a few scars at her hips and on her torso, but he hadn’t dared ask about them. Then one night, as they were stripping in her room, alone in the house together, she produced two razors. She traced her scars with one of them and tossed the other to Sam. 

“I’ve got an idea,” she announced with a mischievous smile. When Sam didn’t respond, she continued, “Have you ever tasted blood?”

Sam couldn’t believe he’d heard her right. “What?” 

She shrugged. “I guess that means you haven’t. Wanna try?”

“Um, no?” 

She laughed. “C’mon. Trust me. There’s no high like it.” She pushed Sam onto the bed and lay down next to him, pressing the razor to her hip. Sam panicked as trickles of blood began to appear.

“Ruby!—” he exclaimed. 

“Shh. Here.” She put the razor aside and grasped strands of Sam’s hair, smashed his face against the new cut. He couldn’t prevent a couple of droplets from slipping onto his tongue. He tasted the blood.

And he loved it. 

Ruby had been right: drinking her blood was a high like no other.

Intoxicating. 

It made him feel powerful.

Sex with Ruby became a heady mixture—her scent, his cum, their sweat, their blood spiraling around them. 

He never wanted it to end.

But a stupid mistake destroyed it all. 

Ruby and he kept the cuts on his thighs and hips, sure no one would discover the marks on those places. And it should’ve worked.

But one night, after Sam took a shower, he wrapped the towel around his waist and proceeded to his room shirtless. Dad was passed out drunk again. Dean was gone, and Sam expected him to stay out all night, as he’d lately been doing. 

Instead, Sam almost bumped into Dean in the hallway.

Dean beamed. “Hey, Sammy!” 

Sam hated the nickname. It made him feel like he was three. “Uh, hey,” he muttered as he swept past his brother. His hip accidentally collided with Dean’s body, but he paid it no mind.

“Sammy?” Dean called. 

“What?” he snapped as he turned to face Dean.

Dean pointed at something on Sam’s body. “What’s that?” 

Sam glanced down to see what Dean had indicated. Crap. The top of one of the cuts extended above the towel.

Sam shrugged and tried to sound nonchalant. “Nothing.” 

Dean frowned, fingering his lip. “No. It’s not nothing.” He took a few steps toward Sam, and Sam attempted to back up. Dean gripped the top of the towel and bent down to examine the cut more closely. He nearly snatched the towel off of Sam, but Sam held it firmly closed.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sam spat. “Trying to get me naked? I knew you were a perv, but this is a new fuckin’ low!” 

Dean straightened up and crossed his arms. “Shut up,” he commanded, his voice low, dangerous. For a minute, he reminded Sam of Dad. He traced the revealed scar. “How many more of these do you have?”

Sam shoved Dean away with one hand. “Don’t you freakin’ touch me!” 

“We need to talk about this.”

“Can’t I at least put on some friggin’ clothes?” Sam hissed. 

“All right.” Sam stalked to his room and slammed the door in Dean’s face, locking it afterward. After throwing on some jeans and a T-shirt, he opened a window. He couldn’t deal with this shit right now. He’d go to Ruby’s.

But Dean was a damn expert at picking locks. 

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean growled. “C’mere.”

Sam had never heard Dean sound so authoritative, and he felt compelled to obey. Dean sat down on the bed and patted a spot next to him. 

“Why?” Dean whispered, his face pale. Dammit. Dean probably thought he was some pathetic self-harming loser. “Is it—Dad? Did he do something to you?”

“No.” 

“Then what?” Sam merely glared at him. “C’mon, you can trust me. If there’s anything . . . I wanna help.”

He didn’t trust Dean. He was too quick to defend Dad. Sam trusted Ruby. He shook his head. 

“Sam, you can’t keep hurting yourself like this—” Dean pleaded.

Fuck. He had to make Dean understand so he’d stop worrying. “I’m not hurting myself.” 

Dean looked puzzled. “What?”

“It’s, it’s—it’s glorious, it feels so good.—” 

Dean’s eyes widened. “Sammy . . . you need help.”

Sam babbled, “Dean, the taste, it’s—so good, and Ruby and I—we love each other, we share everything, and it’s like we’re inside each other’s skin—” 

“Ruby? Your girlfriend?”

If he could just get Dean to understand, maybe he’d calm the fuck down. “It’s harmless, and it’s so, _so_ good, and—” 

“You’re not to see her anymore. Ruby. Y’all are done.”

“What?” Sam spluttered. 

There was a new, frightening intensity in Dean’s eyes. “You and Ruby are over.”

“Fuck you!” Sam yelled. “You’re not my dad!” 

Dean swiped at his eyes. “No. I’m not. The dad you have, we have, I’m sorry, but—”

“ _No, you’re not_.” 

“What?”

“You’re not sorry about Dad. You take all kinds of shit from him. You obey him like some sorry puppy dog.—” 

“I do not.” Dean sounded small. Like the weakling he was.

“Yes, you do.” 

“Don’t change the subject, Sam!” Dean shouted. “This is about you and your fuckin’ weirdo girlfriend Ruby—”

“Don’t call her that!” 

“Your relationship is not healthy.—”

“Like you’d know!” Sam scoffed. “You’ve never had a fuckin’ relationship!” 

“You’re breaking up with her.”

“Or what?” 

“Or—or I’ll send you to rehab.”

“And say what, I have an addiction to drinking blood? Right. Like you have the money for that anyway.” 

“I’m serious.”

Sam sensed that it was no idle threat. He had no desire to go to rehab. It would ruin his life, create rumors at school. 

So, to prevent the alternative, Sam ended things with Ruby. Afterward, his relationship with Dean improved until Sam left home for good.

He wondered if Ruby still drank blood with her partners. 

Ruby eyed a booth. “Wanna join us?”

“Okay,” Sam agreed. 

Meg and Ruby sat down across from Sam. “So, what’re you doing in town?” Ruby asked.

Sam shrugged. “I’m sure you heard about Dad.” 

“I’m sorry,” Ruby said.

“Me, too,” Meg added. 

“Thanks,” Sam replied. “Anyway, yeah. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to learn more about Dean. I haven’t talked to him in a while, you see. Years. And I want to figure out what all this hubbub is about him and Father Castiel Novak.”

“I knew there had to be something wrong with him,” Meg grumbled. 

“Huh?”

“Father Castiel. He seemed messed up to me.” 

“Oh.”

Meg’s eyes alit on a guy sitting alone at the bar. “Excuse me, ladies,” she declared before leaving them and sidling up to the man. Once she was gone, Ruby burst into a fit of giggles. Sam furrowed his brow. 

“It’s just—you want to know the real reason she hates Castiel Novak?”

“Sure.” 

“She, oh, God, she used to have the biggest crush on him. You should’ve seen her bat her eyelashes at him. It was so _obvious_ , and he pretended like he didn’t notice. But she kept at it. Then one night she kissed him at Harvelle’s, and he rejected her.” Huh. So the priest did drink. “She _loves_ the idea of Father Castiel being gay. She was worried she’d lost her touch, but if Father Castiel is gay . . .”

“Oh.” 

Ruby sipped her beer. “She’s so full of herself.”

“I can tell.” Ruby laughed. He didn’t know why, but being with Ruby brought out his mean streak. In high school and now. And damn, she was still hot . . . 

They gossiped about anything and everything in town, and Sam found he was having the most fun he’d had all week. After a few more hours and drinks, Ruby proclaimed, “I think I’m gonna head home. Wanna come?”

He held up his hand and pointed to the wedding band. “Married.” 

She blushed. “Oh. Oh, wow. We don’t have to do anything. You can sleep on the couch. It’s just been so long, y’know? And this has been good.”

“It has,” Sam agreed. “Yeah. Okay.” 

They drove to Ruby’s apartment. Inside, the furniture appeared worn-out. “It’s not much, but it’s functional,” Ruby explained as Sam took in the surroundings.

They collapsed on the couch and watched TV. After a while, Ruby went to the bathroom and returned with two razors. “Remember this?” she asked with a grin. 

“Yeah.”

“Once more? For old time’s sake?” Sam knew he shouldn’t. That was a perilous road. “We don’t have to fuck,” she clarified, and now Sam found himself saying yes. He used to love when Ruby would talk dirty without shame. As she just had. 

He craved that high. Why not just this once?

New cuts, fresh blood. Slaking his thirst as she slaked hers. The actions taking on a life of their own, he shucking off her clothes, her shucking off his. Penetration. Them caught up in each other. 

xxxxxxxxxx

When Sam woke up in the morning, he wiped the crust from his eyes. Then he realized where he was: Ruby’s apartment. On her couch, their limbs intertwined. 

He needed to throw up. Friggin’ hangovers.

But _shit_. He’d slept with Ruby. 

He’d cheated on Jess.

Fuck. How was he going to explain this? 

Perhaps he didn’t have to.

But no. He couldn’t look her in the eye and keep a secret like this. 

How could he have been so fuckin’ _stupid_?

He couldn’t lose Jess over this. It would break him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing in this chapter is meant to indicate actual self-harm, or an opinion thereof--but Sam's actions could've been triggering in that regard, so I thought there should be a warning at the beginning of the chapter.
> 
> We'll be returning to Cas and Dean next week.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Hellfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this chapter a little early so I can focus on other tasks I need to finish today.
> 
> This day corresponds with the morning Sam wakes up in the last chapter; the rest of Sam's day will be in the next chapter.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: torture and a suicide attempt.
> 
> This was a rather difficult chapter to get through.

Dean attempted to escape, shoving past all three individuals and making it to the door, but then the passenger from the van tackled him.

“Good job, Esper,” Naomi congratulated him. Ion and Esper jerked him to his feet and pushed him back into the metal chair, each man producing handcuffs from his belt loop and attaching them to first Dean’s hands then the chair rails.

"Kinky!" Dean jeered.

“Filthy man,” Naomi hissed. Her slap startled him. He didn’t know why; what with all the horror stories Cas had told him about the Brethren bastards, he should’ve expected it. Worse was probably yet to come.

Speaking of Cas . . . perhaps they _were_ doing worse to him. 

Fuck. What if they’d killed Cas?

“Where’s Cas?” Dean shouted once again. 

“My, you like to harp on that one note, don’t you?” Naomi retorted. “We’ve got to burn that sin right out of you.”

Sin? What the fuck was she talking about? 

Why the hell did these people bring him here in the first place? He and Cas had been far away, in friggin’ _Idaho_ , for chrissakes. Had the Brethren been hunting for them? If so, why? Why were they so desperate to have him and Cas?

Maybe they were just sadistic bastards with nothing better to do. 

Dean stared down at the floor and counted the wood grains. “Dameal,” Naomi ordered, “look at me.”

No way in hell would he obey that bitch. Why did she keep calling him that, anyway? Dameal? “I’m Dean,” he muttered. 

“No. You’re Dameal.”

He deigned to lift his eyes to her. “I’m Dean. Now tell me what the fuck you’ve done with Cas or I’ll—” 

“You’ll what?” Naomi smirked. “You’re in no position to make demands, _Dameal_. And you _will_ accept your name.”

“Or what?” Dean attempted to sound cavalier, but his voice came out shaky. 

“You’ll be punished. Like all bad boys and girls.”

“You know all about that, huh?” Dean leered. “You’re a teacher, right? The kind who likes to smack little girls and boys?” 

“Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

Of course she liked beating children. She and John Winchester probably could’ve been BFFs. 

She was mere inches from his face, her smug smile almost all he saw in his line of vision. He spit in her eye and avowed, “You’re a sick fuck.”

She wiped the saliva out of her eye and friggin’ _laughed_. “My, you really are a heathen.” She straightened up and crossed her arms over her chest. “Good thing I like a challenge.” 

He forced a grin. “This is one challenge you ain’t gonna win, sugar. No way you’re ever gettin’ my sweet lovin’.”

Her hand slammed into his mouth, and _damn_ , that hurt. He tasted blood, and he prodded his top lip with his tongue. It was split. “Your dirty jokes do not impress me,” Naomi admonished. 

“Where’s Cas?” he tried again.

She let out an exasperated sigh. “None of your business. Dameal.” 

“What the fuck is this, anyway?” he yelled. Naomi narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do you care about my damn name?”

“You belong to us now. Your name has to be . . . appropriate. We prayed, and God answered. You’re Dameal.” 

Right. “Why the fuck do you want me to ‘belong to you’?” Seriously. Why go out of their way, venture hundreds of miles away from their home base, just for that?

“It’s not about what we want. It’s what God wants.” 

Huh. These people belonged in the freakin’ loony bin. “Because you have a direct line to the celestial bastard.”

Anger emanated from her skin “You wicked, wicked man. Stop with the blasphemy.” She slapped him again, exacerbating the wound on his lip. “And yes. We do have a direct line to God.” Dean snorted, and Ion punched him in the nose. 

“Show some respect,” Ion commanded.

“I only show respect to people who deserve it. And she ain’t one of them. Neither are you. Or that other dickwad over there.” He indicated Esper with his eyes. 

Another blow to the nose, and now he felt something dripping from it.

“We’ll have to burn out that impudence,” Naomi declared. “Now. What is your name?” 

“Dean.”

“Esper.” Esper drew a friggin’ _sword_ from God knew where and grazed Dean’s cheekbone with it. “Now,” Naomi resumed. “What is your name?” 

He guessed the sword was supposed to intimidate him. It was working, but he didn’t want to give Naomi the satisfaction of knowing that, so he schooled his features into neutrality. Besides, after all those years with Dad, he could handle whatever shit they were threatening to do. (Would probably do for real. He knew Cas’s body as well as he knew his own.) With the thought of Cas, the seriousness of the situation loomed large. It was enough to make him feel freakin’ _desperate_.

But he wasn’t going to give Naomi the satisfaction. 

“Dean,” he answered. Esper dragged the blade down Dean’s cheek to his lip and up again. Still not cracking the skin, but alerting him of the distinct possibility.

“What is your name?” Naomi repeated. 

Damn, this was going to become tiresome. “Dean.”

Esper slashed Dean’s cheek. “Fuck!” Dean cried. His instinct was to clap a hand on the wound, but he couldn’t, not shackled as he was. 

“What is your name?”

“Dean.” Maybe they would tear him up for not answering as they wanted, but he refused to give in. If they were so damn intent on him taking on their stupid name, there must be a reason. Something in it for them. And he couldn’t let them win whatever their sick fucking game was. 

And if they’d done something to Cas . . . well, Dean owed it to him to hold firm.

xxxxxxxxxx 

It felt like this had been going on for freakin’ hours, but the trio in front of Dean showed no signs of letting up. He had several cuts on his cheek and a few more up and down his arms. They could carve his whole body up for all he cared.

Chunks of that bravado seeped out with every new wound. Everything radiated pain and blood. 

“What is your name?” Naomi asked for the millionth time.

“Dean,” he attempted to yell, but he was so out of breath that even he could barely hear his voice. 

“Strike one. What is your name?”

“Dean,” he sighed. 

“Strike two. What is your name?”

“Dean.” It took all his strength to mutter that one syllable. 

“Strike three. Esper?”

This time, Esper rolled up the bottom of his shirt and slashed at his torso. “Ah, fuck!” he screamed. He’d never heard himself sound so high-pitched. 

“What is your name?”

“You gonna tell me where Cas is?” At least this answer would break up the damn monotony. Plus, he really needed to know. With every second that passed, his fear for Cas grew exponentially. 

“You’re _still_ thinking about that?” Naomi responded. Well, at least she hadn’t ignored the question. That was something. He nodded, the action igniting a searing pain in his neck. “Tell you what. You tell me your true name, and I’ll tell you all about him.”

“Dean.” 

She bent down and stroked his chin almost gently. “Don’t you want to know what happened to your precious boyfriend?” He nodded. “I’ll bring him to you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He nodded again, tears stinging his eyes. _Yes, please. Please show me Cas_. “All you have to do is tell me your name,” she reiterated.

This had to be a trick

“Dean.” 

Her voice took on a timbre of disappointment. “And I thought you wanted to see Castiel.”

“I don’t believe you,” Dean managed to whisper. 

“What?”

“I don’t believe you’ll bring me Cas.” 

“I keep my promises.”

 He knew the tears were mixing with the blood. “I don’t believe you.”

She stood up and turned to her lackeys. “Ion. We need to talk.” 

Ion and Naomi retreated to a far corner and spoke in low tones. The only words he could make out were “different” and “Castiel.” Afterward, Ion left the room.

xxxxxxxxxx 

It was stuffy in the barn-cum-jail. Throughout his lifetime, the place had always served as the town jail, but Castiel couldn’t recall anyone actually being locked up in it. The structure had been built during the first days of the Brethren, when they used to grow their own crops and maintain their own farm animals. Angel Falls had been founded as a self-sufficient colony in the late 1800s, a few families following the divine prophet Gamaliel Turner, who’d been named after the wise Pharisee sympathetic to Jesus. Gamaliel had received revelations from God, often going into a trance at the moments when he did so. His wife Leah had been afraid for his health, then his sanity, but when she witnessed an unearthly glow surrounding her husband during one revelation, she knew he truly spoke to the Lord. Soon neighbors and a few others scattered throughout his home state of Indiana formed a religion revolving around Gamaliel and his revelations. They had so much faith in Gamaliel that they followed him throughout the country without knowing their destination until they arrived at the future site of Angel Falls and Gamaliel proclaimed it the land God had chosen for them.

Such were the Brethren’s teachings, anyway. Castiel hadn’t believed them for a long time. He didn’t doubt there’d been a historical Gamaliel and Leah who’d led a group of followers to this place, but he thought Gamaliel’s revelations were false. Like Uriel’s. And as Zachariah’s would be. “Receiving Revelation” was a lie invented to justify the leaders’ orders. 

A horse stall served as his cell. Seated on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms clasped around them, he stared at a rotting wooden wall and wished Dean were here with him. Or at least in one of the other cells. Castiel was alone in the edifice, so if Dean were here, too, at least he’d know nothing worse was happening to him.

Speculating about Dean’s fate terrified him. He knew what the Brethren were capable of. If they gave reign to their darker impulses . . . well, death would be more merciful. 

No. He wouldn’t let himself cry. _Please don’t cry_. If he acknowledged the pain, the unbounded fear, it would all come pouring out, and he wouldn’t be able to stop.

He heard footsteps and abruptly wiped his eyes. He would not let the Brethren see him surrender to despair. He stood up and prepared to face whoever was approaching. 

Ion and Inias. Keys hung from the tips of Inias’s fingers. He unlocked the door and said, “Come with us, Castiel.”

Outside, the sunlight pierced his eyes. One man accompanied him on each side as they headed toward an unknown destination. They hadn’t even restrained him. He briefly thought of running, but they could probably catch up with him. Besides, that would require abandoning Dean, which he refused to do. 

“Where are we going?” Castiel ventured.

“You shall see,” Inias replied. 

After a long walk, they reached a nondescript wooden building near the edge of the compound. If he remembered correctly, this used to be a lodge or a bed and breakfast or something of the sort before the Brethren had shut it down due to a lack of profits. Again, before his time.

Ion pulled open the door and gestured for Castiel to follow. Inias brought up the rear. Eventually, they entered a large room where Naomi, Esper, and Zachariah loitered. 

And in a chair on the far side of the room, Dean.

Castiel rushed forward and crouched next to him. “Dean,” he pronounced. Dean’s arms were chained to the chair, and there was a gash on his temple, but otherwise he seemed unharmed, though drained. Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re all right.” 

Dean attempted a smile, but it looked like a grimace. “Cas,” he mumbled. “You’re alive.” Castiel cupped his cheek. Dean barked out a feeble laugh that turned into a cough. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Castiel furrowed his brow. “For what?” 

“There’s so much . . . ,” he wheezed. “So much blood. And I got it on you. So, so much . . . ” His eyes widened, and Castiel cringed at the whole-hearted fear in them. “ . . . blood.”

Castiel frowned. “Dean, there is no—” 

“Okay, reunion over,” Zachariah hollered as he jerked Castiel to his feet and dragged him back to the other side of the room.

What did they do to him? Why did Dean think he was bleeding? 

What did they do?! Oh, God, what did they do?!

Naomi proceeded to the middle of the room and asked Dean, “What is your name?” 

“Dean.”

Naomi glanced at the group by the door, and Zachariah held up an angel-blade. He placed it at the tip of Castiel’s eye, and Castiel couldn’t prevent himself from flinching. He felt the angel-blade scratch his eye for a second. 

“What is your name?” Naomi repeated.

“Think hard on your answer,” Zachariah put in. “Or I’ll cut out one of his pretty blue eyes.” 

“Dean.”

“I mean it, boy.” He pressed the angel-blade harder, and Castiel thought he felt a break in his skin. 

Understanding clicked into place.

Dean might not know what this was, but Castiel did. They wanted Dean to accept their new name for him. He couldn’t. It was more than a name. They sought to reshape his identity, to obliterate Dean and create Dameal. 

“Dean.”

The blade entered his eye again. Dean’s lips quivered as if he were about to speak. “You’re Dean,” Castiel encouraged. 

“Shut up!” Zachariah yelled as he slapped Castiel. He turned back to Dean and shrugged. “Out goes an eye.”

“No,” Dean whispered. 

“No? Then tell me your name.”

“Dameal,” he breathed, his voice barely audible. 

“What was that? Speak so we can hear you, boy.”

Dean cleared his throat and said, “Dameal.” 

“No!” Castiel shrieked. If Dean answered as they wanted, it was the first step toward Brethren victory. Dean might think he was supplying what they desired merely to save Castiel, but it would become much more. “You’re Dean, you’re Dean, you’re Dean!”

“What is your name?” Naomi asked him. 

“Dameal. I’m Dameal.”

“No, no, no, no, no!” Castiel cried. Now there were tears in his eyes, and he didn’t care who saw. 

Zachariah struck Castiel in the jaw. “Shut your mouth.”

Naomi grinned and returned to the cadre by the door. Castiel moved to the center of the room and gazed at Dean. His eyes . . . 

As Castiel tried to comprehend the expression in Dean’s eyes, he dimly perceived the voices behind him.

“We can’t bring Castiel in here again.” Zachariah. 

“Yes.” Naomi. “We need an adjustment to the serum.”

“I’ll have Hester work on it.” 

 _Blankness._ That was the expression in Dean’s eyes. It was as if he’d vacated his body.

Castiel shook. It hit him with a jolting intensity, the anguish, the heartache, the rage. Oh, so much rage. He felt like it would engulf him. 

This was all Zachariah’s fault. Uriel wouldn’t have done this. Uriel wouldn’t have scoured the country looking for them.

He swerved around and stalked back to the other side. No one was paying attention to him, though Esper and Inias were blocking the doorway. “ _Zachariah_ ,” he screeched, the name a curse. 

He slammed Zachariah against the wall, wrapped his hands around Zachariah’s neck, and squeezed as hard as he could, letting the rage take over.

“Castiel!” Naomi exclaimed. Hands snatched him away from his target, constraining him. But at least he’d left a mark on Zachariah, and the sight of it brought a twisted smile to his lips. 

“We knew you were evil,” Naomi declared with a gleam in her eye.

“ _You’re_ the evil ones,” he retorted. All five Brethren members laughed as if he’d just told the funniest joke they’d heard in years. 

Hatred flared up in him.

“Lock him back up,” Zachariah ordered as he rubbed at his neck. 

This time, they handcuffed his hands behind his back, and everyone but Zachariah and Naomi escorted him to his cell.

xxxxxxxxxx 

The light coming in through the slats was lessening, and dusk would arrive soon, followed by nightfall. The barn wasn’t furnished with electricity, and Castiel doubted they would bring him a lantern. When night settled in, he’d be completely in the dark. 

He continued to tremble sporadically throughout the afternoon. Any time he thought it was finally over, the spasms returned again. He intermittently broke into fits of wild, gasping sobs where he could scarcely breathe, clutching at tufts of his hair.

Why had Dean thought there was blood? 

What had they done to him? What were they doing to him now?

Blood. Why had Dean rambled about blood? 

This was his fault. He should have turned himself in back when they were in Kansas. If he had, none of this would’ve happened. At least he’d know Dean was safe. He shouldn’t have allowed Dean to talk him out of it. He’d known fleeing with Dean had been wrong, but he’d listened to his selfishness. And he’d been afraid, he admitted to himself, afraid of jail and prison.

But this was ten times worse. 

Erasing Dean from himself . . .

Footsteps. He cleared his mind, closing himself off, denying them the gratification of seeing him defeated. 

Ion appeared with a tray of noodles in one hand, a tumbler of water balanced atop it. He opened the door a notch, slid the tray inside, and shut the stall. “Dinner,” he announced.

Castiel ignored the tray and asked, “May I use the restroom?” He’d suddenly realized he needed to urinate, and maybe . . . well, maybe, if they took him to the bathroom, he could slip away and free Dean, since he knew where Dean was . . . it would be foolhardy, but it was worth a try. 

Ion snorted with disdain. “Like we’d let you out of there.”

“But—” 

Ion picked up an old bucket near his feet, unlocked the stall again, and tossed the bucket at Castiel. Pain blossomed in his head as it hit him then bounced to the ground. “Use this.” As Ion’s footsteps faded, his laughter boomed off the rafters and spread all around Castiel.

Well. If he had to go . . . 

After he was finished, he placed the bucket in the far corner, but he could still smell its contents. No doubt the stench would overwhelm him as days ticked by, but that was the least of his problems.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, drained the glass, and prodded the noodles with the fork. He didn’t want to eat, but he scooped a noodle into his mouth anyway. It tasted bland. He took another bite then dropped his fork on the tray. He felt queasy. 

He didn’t know how much time passed, but it felt like eons. No one came to retrieve the tray. The light waned. His eyes skimmed over the fork, and an idea struck him.

Maybe if he was dead, they would discontinue whatever it was they were doing to Dean. If the goal was to have him damn Castiel . . . 

But Zachariah had said they would make him into a zealous convert. They could do that without Castiel.

But they wanted to do it merely to damn Castiel. Wasn’t that what Zachariah had meant? 

He had to do _something_. He hated feeling so powerless.

Okay. Could he even kill himself with a fork? 

The thought sounded so absurd that he erupted into hysterical giggles. Once they subsided, he wept yet again.

If he concentrated on it, perhaps he could slit his wrists with the fork. They probably wouldn’t return for a while. There’d be enough time to bleed out. 

He picked up the fork and tapped it against his palm, contemplating his idea. Tears threatened to spill out of his eyes once more, so he rubbed them until the moisture disappeared.

He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and prayed, sniffling, “All I wanted was Dean. Why was that so wrong? Maybe I was too presumptuous . . . Yes, I know I was. I tried to take what I didn’t deserve. Everything in me, much of what I’ve done . . . it’s sin, and I understand I must pay. But Lord, please.” His voice cracked. “Please don’t punish Dean for my sins. They’re mine alone. He is a good man, Lord. I know. Please, Lord, just—just save him. That is all I ask. Amen.” He crossed himself.

Soon, no trace of light would be left. If he was going to execute his plan, he had to do it now. 

He braced himself and touched the tips of the fork’s tongs to his wrist. He pressed down, but produced only pain. He could do this, he told himself. Just try a little harder. He gritted his teeth as the pain increased. Then yes, blood, and he hissed, then screamed as he dragged the fork up to the crook of his elbow. His hand quivered. The blood wasn’t oozing out fast enough. He switched the fork into the other hand and repeated the process on his right arm. More blood, but still, not a lot.

He lay down and closed his eyes. Perhaps it’d be enough to ensure he didn’t wake up. 

xxxxxxxxxxx

A virulent beeping jarred him awake. When Castiel’s eyes fluttered open, they were greeted by off-white walls and that loud machine, which was attached to his left hand with an IV. His forearms were swaddled in bandages. 

So much for never waking up. Instead, he’d landed himself in the infirmary.

“Castiel. You’re awake,” a voice to his right observed. He jumped, surprised he wasn’t alone, then turned to face the speaker. 

His vision was a little blurry, but all the same, he thought he recognized the young man. “Samandriel? Is that you?” he mumbled.

Samandriel chuckled softly. In the room with Dean, the others’ laughter had mocked him, but this sound didn’t. It seemed to offer friendship. “Yes, Castiel. Gosh, it’s been forever.” 

“Yes.” When Castiel had run away from the Brethren, Samandriel had been eleven. Even though he’d served Uriel, he hadn’t been aware of the actions of Next Level members or the Elders. He merely followed Uriel’s orders. Castiel still vividly remembered the morning after Zachariah had banished him from the Next Level. Samandriel had come in to clean up the blood, his eyes widening in horror as he completed the chore. Afterward, he’d helped Castiel sit up and offered him some water. Even though he knew Samandriel might get in trouble if caught, he’d accepted the drink, desperate for something to ground him.

Samandriel would have to be about twenty-six now. He still looked the same, like a taller version of his eleven-year-old self. 

It occurred to him that Dean’s brother and Samandriel were of a similar age. He’d seen a photo of Sam Winchester in high school, and he’d looked older then than Samandriel looked now. Strange how that could happen.

“How did I get here?” Castiel asked. 

“Ion realized he’d forgotten about your tray,” Samandriel explained. “He went to get it, and he found you.”

“I wasn’t dead?” What a stupid question. Of course he hadn’t been dead. 

Thankfully, Samandriel didn’t ridicule him for it. “No. You didn’t bleed much. It coagulated.”

“Ah.” 

Samandriel wrapped his hands around Castiel’s free one. They were warm. “Castiel. I have always . . . well, I used to like you very much. I admired you. Not because you were the youngest person to ever make it to the Next Level, but because you had so much heart. You were . . . pure. I wanted to be like you when I grew up.”

Castiel blushed. “I am touched, Samandriel. Truly. But your faith was misplaced. I have never been pure.” 

“Still. I wish I could help you.”

Castiel smiled at him, humbled by the unexpected kindness. “Thank you, Samandriel. I appreciate the sentiment.” 

Samandriel removed his hands. “You should get some rest.”

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean was sure he hadn’t slept for at least twenty-four hours, possibly more. These jackasses were relentless. They rotated shifts, and Dean had seen a few more of these bastards by now. Someone named Inias, that Hester bitch, others whose names he didn’t catch.

After they’d taken Cas away, they’d asked his name again, and he’d reverted to Dean. But then Naomi had reminded him that if he answered wrongly, they would hurt Cas. Now that he’d glimpsed Cas and knew he was alive, even okay, he had to do what he could to protect him. 

So he repeated that he was Dameal over and over until the syllables threatened to brand themselves into his brain. They hovered on the periphery of his awareness, calling for his acceptance.

After that, they started to teach him rules. If he refused to confirm them, they cut him with those damn swords and/or threatened to harm Cas until he consented. 

Might as well avoid that crap by giving them what they wanted upfront.

That made sense, right? He didn’t know. The exhaustion . . . everything had become so confusing. He didn’t think he was even seeing straight; sometimes his vision seemed distorted. 

Just because he supplied what they wanted didn’t mean he had to internalize it. He could still think what he wished, even if he felt too muddled to think.

And he was saving Cas, which was worth something. 

The last time Dean had seen Cas, he’d attempted to choke the bald guy who’d been in here that once. (Was his name Zachariah?) The burst of violence from Cas, _quiet_ Cas, had brought home the bleakness of their predicament.

Of course, Castiel’s action had been pointless. There would be no escape. 

So if indulging these bastards helped Cas in any way, he’d do it.

Dammit. They were fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why must I torture my favorites?
> 
> The next few parts with Dean and Castiel are going to be rough, but as I promised, there will be a happy ending to the story.
> 
> There are a couple more chapters before the Sam and Dean/Castiel chapters will merge.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to know your thoughts!


	7. Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, the first day here is the same day as the one covered in the previous chapter.

When Sam stirred, Ruby woke up, her manner nonchalant, as if what’d happened last night was nothing but a trifle. She announced she had to go to work, got dressed, and shooed him out.

Apparently, to her he’d been nothing but a walk down memory lane, a good lay. (He remembered last night, when she’d crooned into his ear to move faster, to give her more, oh, God, God, God, yes, laughing and moaning, turning him on so expertly he had burst as he buried himself as deeply as he could.) 

Oh, God, he still had to vomit. And thinking of last night, Ruby’s casual attitude about it, and how even his love for Jess hadn’t stopped him—

He retched right there on the sidewalk, hoping no one was around, thankful no cars were in sight. 

He stumbled down a few blocks until he reached the Lamplighter Inn, avoiding Ms. Milligan’s judgmental eye as he fumbled with his keys and lurched into his room. He collapsed on the bed, and Jesus fucking Christ, his head hurt.

Okay. What was today? Friday. He had two days before he had to tell Jess. What the hell could he say? There was no justifying what he’d done. Sure, he’d been drunk, but he’d gone to Ruby willingly. Most disturbingly, he wasn’t certain he’d act differently if the situation should arise again. (But he’d be sure to avoid her, especially now he knew the danger she posed.) 

What the fuck was wrong with him? He _loved_ Jess. He shouldn’t have been as drawn to Ruby as he’d been. (As he still was, he admitted to himself, even as he knew she didn’t regard him with anything more than nostalgia.)

He couldn’t focus on anything other than his sheer panic, his besieged conscience. 

He felt bile rising in his throat again, and he reached the trash can before it came flooding out. He swiped an arm across his mouth and flopped back onto the bed. Everything spun around him, and he closed his eyes, but there was no respite, even in sleep, where he dreamed of draining Ruby’s blood and slamming into her, sometimes with Jess watching, or if there was no Ruby, then there was Jess staring at him, hurt, as if he were a monster.

xxxxxxxxxxx 

Sam wavered in and out of consciousness, his fits of sleep anything but restful. When he was no longer able to close his eyes, he glanced at the bedside clock and discovered it was about two p.m. Groaning, he sat up then shuffled to the window, throwing open the curtains. He shielded his eyes from the painfully bright light. A blue sky accompanied the sun, the day outside determined to project cheeriness even as Sam’s insides crumbled with rot.

He took a shower, donned clean clothes, and retreated to the bed. He flipped on the TV and settled on a marathon of some mindless reality show, his eyes glazing over as he huddled into himself, shivering even though it wasn’t cold. 

When his stomach growled, he checked the time again. Almost five now. The thought of eating made him sick, but his stomach begged for food.

If he was going to eat, he needed a drink. To dull his senses. Otherwise, he would refuse to eat, appalled at the idea of sustaining himself after he’d betrayed Jess. 

He decided to head to Harvelle’s; he recalled that being a favorite haunt of Dean’s. It was as good a destination as any, and it provided the off-chance (a very off-chance, he acknowledged) of him learning something useful about Dean and Castiel Novak. Because that was why he was here, and the debacle with Ruby shouldn’t hinder his investigation.

Once he arrived at Harvelle’s, he ambled up to the bar and waited for some service. The place was relatively crowded, and when his eyes darted to the far end of the bar, he understood why. The Vatican’s investigator, Father Gabriel Goodwin, held a giggling audience captive. Sam considered going over there to find out what was so entertaining, but he didn’t have enough energy to join the gaggle of gatherers. 

“Oh, my God!” someone exclaimed. “It’s Sam friggin’ Winchester!”

Sam whipped his head around and saw Jo Harvelle beaming down at him. He returned the grin. “Hey, Jo. Long time, no see.” Jo had been a year below him in high school, the star of the girls’ soccer team. Sam and she had hung out together, but they’d never dated, both repulsed by the idea. They’d merely enjoyed each other’s company, as friends and nothing more. 

“Damn right it’s been a long time. You never called.”

“Um, sorry?” 

Jo cracked a good-natured laugh. “Just teasin’. But seriously. We should be Facebook friends. Why aren’t we?”

“Yeah, why aren’t we?” 

Jo chuckled again. “I’d heard you were in town. How’s it been goin’?”

“Oh, it’s goin’.” 

Jo glanced down at his hand. “Fuck! You’re freakin’ _married_!” she cried.

Sam dammed up the guilt threatening to flood him. “Yeah.” 

“Who’s the lucky girl? Do I know her?”

“Nah. I met Jess at Stanford.” 

“That’s awesome! Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” Sam muttered. “What about you? I see you’re not married. You seein’ someone?” 

“What the fuck do I need a man for?”

Good ole Jo and her firecracker attitude. He’d forgotten how much fun she could be. “How long have you been workin’ here?” 

“As soon as I turned twenty-one, baby.”

Sam nodded. “Cool.” 

Jo’s voice grew sympathetic. “Listen. I’m sorry about your dad. That’s rough.”

“Yeah. Um. Thanks.” He paused then added, “That’s why I’m here, y’know. It just boggles my mind that Dean . . . well, we hadn’t talked in years. But I’m still baffled. I mean, what the hell happened?” 

“I take it you heard about him and Castiel?”

Sam’s eyes widened at the casual way in which she muttered the priest’s name. “You know him? Castiel Novak?” 

“We met a couple of times. Nice guy. Strange, but nice.”

“Strange? How was he strange?” 

“He just—he was kind of awkward. I don’t know how to explain it. When he talked, he just sounded . . . strange.” A sparkle entered her eyes. “I remember when they came in here together, Dean and Castiel. It was months ago. I think it was the first time the priest’d ever had a drink in his life. It was the funniest thing, seeing Dean here with a priest. I didn’t think their friendship could last. I mean, Dean . . . Dean was an asshole to him.”

“Interesting.” 

“Then, I think it was about a month or so ago, Mom and I saw them at the grocery store.” Dean on a domestic chore outing? Now _that_ was unusual. “They were just . . . I don’t know. So happy. I was surprised . . . they’re so different from each other. Mom called them the odd couple. ‘Course, she didn’t know they were an actual couple . . . but when I saw them there together, I had my suspicions.”

“You did? Why?” 

“They were just . . . it looked like they complemented each other.” She grew reflective. “I don’t know what the hell happened with your dad, Sam. But that guy—Castiel, he’s not a killer.”

Sam held his breath. “And Dean?” 

Jo shook her head. “Dean can be a jerk, but he’s not a killer, either.”

“How can you be so sure?” Sam flushed with shame at the question, because yeah, what a great brother he was with his sliver of doubt about Dean’s innocence. 

“Call it women’s intuition.” She made a disgusted face. “Shit. Did I seriously just say that?” Sam laughed. “Fuck, where are my manners?” Jo continued. “You want somethin’ to drink?”

“Drink and eat,” Sam answered. “I’ll take whatever’s on tap. And some fries.” 

“Okay. Comin’ right up.” Jo returned a few minutes later with a full glass and a basket of fries. “On the house,” she declared with a smile.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” 

“Please. Just take it.”

“Um, thanks. Where is your mom, anyway?” 

“Home in bed with a cold.”

“Oh. That’s a shame. Tell her I said hi.” 

“Sure thing.”

Sam sipped his beer, snacked on his fries, and watched as Jo served the other customers. He’d found Jo’s opinion about Dean and Novak intriguing. She’d always had good judgment. When he’d started pulling away from his friends while dating Ruby, she’d warned him that Ruby was a “fuckin’ manipulative hoebag.” How right she’d been. Sam knew that now, and yet something in him would always be attracted to Ruby. It was disheartening. 

A young woman with lustrous red hair strolled into the establishment and took a seat near Sam. Jo approached her a second later and said, “Hey, Anna. Where’s Charlie?”

“Out with Gilda. _Again_.” Sam detected a twinge of disappointment in Anna’s sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” Jo commiserated. “We should hang out when I get off work . . . oh, wait, never mind. That’s not ’til two in the morning.” She made a face. “Sorry.”

Anna smiled. “It’s all right.” 

“You can stay here as long as you like.”

“Thank you.” 

Jo poured a drink and slid it to Anna. “I think this was the one you liked last time?” And wow, Sam had never heard Jo sound so uncertain.

Anna nipped at the beverage. Her smile widened. “You remembered,” she said softly. 

“’Course I did. That’s my damn job,” Jo replied, the customary edge returning to her voice. She walked over to Sam. “Come here. I want you to meet someone.”

“Okay.” She guided him closer to Anna.

“Sam, this is Anna,” she announced. “Castiel’s cousin.” She turned to Anna. “Anna, Sam. Dean’s brother. Y’all might want to talk.” 

Castiel’s cousin? It hit him. _Anna._ The Anna from Dean’s phone. Of course. And Jo had asked her about Charlie. _Charlie_. From Dean’s phone. Charlie must be Anna’s friend.

Maybe she knew something, but Sam couldn’t figure out how to bring up the issue without awkwardness. 

Anna flushed. “You’re really Dean’s brother?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.” 

Wait. If she was Novak’s cousin, maybe she knew about that murder in Angel Falls. Because even if Novak wasn’t responsible for John Winchester’s death, there was still that little matter.

“I don’t think Dean did it,” she blurted, and Sam didn’t have to ask what _it_ was. “Neither did Castiel.” She swallowed. “I just thought I’d let you know.” 

“Thanks,” he mumbled, unsure of what else to say. How to subtly introduce the topic of Angel Falls? “Where are you and Castiel from, anyway?”

“Montana.” 

“Huh. Whereabouts in Montana?”

A shadow passed over her face. “I doubt you’ve heard of it. It’s a little town. Angel Falls.” 

So both Novak and Anna did hail from Angel Falls. She must know about the murder, then. And that weird group there; what was it? The Angelic Brethren.

“Actually I have,” Sam countered. “Heard of it. Listen. Have you ever heard of something called the Angelic Brethren?” 

Her mouth fell open. “How do you know about that?” In a hurried breath, she rambled, “Who are you? They sent you to take me back, didn’t they? Please don’t make me go back.” Tears sprang to her eyes.

What was she talking about? He spoke gently. “No one sent me. I’m Dean’s brother, remember? I . . . I just drove through Angel Falls on my way here. I saw them. That’s all.” 

She wiped her eyes. “Oh. I apologize for being foolish.”

“No need,” he assured her. “But there was something there that puzzles me. Can I ask you about it?” She nodded. “Are you sure? I don’t want to upset you.” 

“Yes. I’ll be all right.”

He cleared his throat. “So. When I was in Angel Falls, they showed me a picture of a man they said was wanted for murder. It was Castiel Novak.” 

“What?” she gasped.

“I take it you don’t know anything about that?” 

“No. Why—why would they do that?” She chewed her lip then resumed, “May I tell you something in confidence?”

“Sure.” 

“Castiel hasn’t been with the Brethren since he was seventeen. That was fifteen and a half years ago. He ran away. I don’t know the whole story about him, just that something awful happened. We children were taught that Castiel had fallen. It was supposed to be a lesson about how even the best of us can fall prey to sin if we’re not on our guard. Because there was this other boy, Balthazar, who’d planted doubts in Castiel’s mind. Until then, Castiel had been one of the most devout people among us.”

Anna’s words struck him as bizarre. “What? Are you telling me these people . . . the Angelic Brethren, they’re a cult?” 

“Yes.”

“Jesus.” Okay. Castiel Novak was raised in a cult; then he left and became a priest. 

She looked thoughtful. “I don’t understand why they would be searching for Castiel.” She turned panicked eyes to Sam. “If they find him, they’ll kill him. Damning him, it’s called. That’s what happened to Balthazar.”

“Christ. And if Dean’s with him?” 

She shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know. He’s not affiliated with them, so I would think they’d ignore him.”

Well, that was a relief. Did Dean know about all this Angelic Brethren stuff? 

“Please don’t tell anyone what I said,” Anna reiterated. “I want to start fresh here. Put my past behind me.”

Sam nodded. “Of course. How’d you wind up here, anyway?” 

“Castiel was the only one I could go to for help after I ran away. He and Dean both helped me settle in. They were kind to me. I don’t know anything about your father, Sam, but I—I have faith in Castiel and Dean.”

“Thank you,” Sam said, jarred by the unexpected sentiment. 

She rested a hand on his. Not an intimate gesture, but a supportive one. “I hope I’ve told you something helpful.”

“You have.” She released his hand and smiled encouragingly.

She had faith in Castiel and Dean.

He would try to have faith, too.

xxxxxxxxxxx 

This morning, Sam felt strangely tranquil despite everything on his mind . . . Ruby, Jess, Dean, Father Castiel Novak, Angel Falls, the Angelic Brethren, Dad, cults, murder, the truth a big question mark . . . 

These racing thoughts evoked the anxiety of yesterday, but he called on one word—faith—and he grew calmer.

It was Saturday. His last day in town. Jess and Mariana were on their way back to California at this very moment, and tomorrow he’d be with them once more. 

If he was going to talk to Bobby, he had to do it today. Which meant he’d need to drive over to Bobby’s garage since Bobby still hadn’t answered or returned his calls.

After a morning run, breakfast, and a shower, Sam threw on jeans and a green plaid shirt and rushed to his rental car. He’d forgotten where Bobby’s auto shop was located, so he looked up the address on his phone before aiming his vehicle in the right direction. 

When he arrived at Bobby’s business, he managed to find a parking space in the crowded lot then took a deep breath to steady himself. This was definitely a bad time; shops were always busiest on Saturdays.

He swung the door open and strolled to the front desk, where a young man glanced up from a sheaf of customer orders. “How may I help you?” he asked. 

“Is Bobby in?” Sam inquired.

“He’s busy, bud. What do you need? An oil change?” 

Sam restrained an urge to sigh. “I just—I need to talk to Bobby.”

“Listen, mister—” 

“Sam?” a familiar gruff voice boomed. He turned to the left and met Bobby’s gaze, examining the oil-stained main who’d once been like an uncle to him.

Sam smiled. “Yeah, Bobby. It’s me.” 

“Shit, boy. Look at you!”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam mumbled as Bobby clapped him on the shoulder. 

The boy at the cash register gaped at them, and Bobby laughed. “This is John Winchester’s younger boy,” he explained before facing Sam again. “Let’s go in the back.”

Sam followed Bobby into a breakroom, which contained a small fridge and a table. Bobby indicated he should sit down, and after Sam heeded the suggestion, Bobby joined him.

“Um. I called you,” Sam offered up lamely. Bobby’s expression grew guarded, and Sam alleged, “You were avoiding me, weren’t you?” He cringed inwardly, for his tone sounded more accusatory than he’d intended. 

“Why would you think that?” Bobby replied.

“I left you messages for two days,” Sam pointed out. “But you never contacted me.” 

 “I’ve been busy,” Bobby responded. Perhaps he had, but Sam resented the excuse. He knew very well that Bobby could’ve found time to return his calls.

“Yeah. Whatever,” Sam mumbled. 

“Don’t give me an attitude, boy.”

Sam lowered his eyes. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath before proceeding. “Um. I want to talk about Dad. If that’s okay.” Not the smoothest way to introduce the topic, but Sam found finesse difficult at the moment. 

“Uh-huh.”

Bobby’s noncommittal response ignited Sam’s nerves. At least he hadn’t smothered him with condolences, Sam observed. 

“I’m just trying to wrap my head around what happened,” Sam elaborated.

“Uh-huh.” 

Bobby wasn’t making this easy for him. “Everyone seems to think that Dean and some priest killed Dad.”

“Yep.” 

“Is that what you think?”

Bobby narrowed his eyes. “Doesn’t matter what I think.” 

Damn, this was going nowhere. Sam tried a different tack. “Um. So, this priest. Castiel Novak. Dean lived with him.”

“Uh-huh.” 

“And Dean worked for you.”

“Uh-huh.” 

“Did you ever meet him? Castiel Novak?”

“Sure.” 

Aha. He must’ve seen how Dean and this Castiel interacted. “What did you think of Novak?”

“He was a damn priest. What was I supposed to think about him?” 

Why was Bobby being so evasive? “I dunno. Like, why was he friends with Dean? You’ve gotta admit, that’s strange.”

Bobby grunted in agreement. “Dean said he met Cas at a diner.” 

Cas? The nickname seemed to illustrate that Bobby was more familiar with the priest than he wanted Sam to believe. “Okay. What else can you tell me about him?”

“I dunno, Sam,” Bobby sighed. “He was a damn good cook. It was obvious he cared a lot about Dean.” Sam’s eyes widened at that revelation. “I’m not sayin’ I knew they were sleepin’ with each other,” Bobby quickly added. “I never woulda thought that in a million years. But Cas, he did Dean a lotta good. Most people ’round here didn’t think much of Dean, but Cas, you could see he had faith in Dean. I think that helped Dean clean up his act.” 

There was that word again. Faith. Was the world attempting to tell him something, or was it merely coincidence? “So you liked him,” Sam concluded.

“’Course I liked the guy. He wasn’t like those other dickheads at St. Francis’s. Someone oughtta lock those bastards up and throw away the key.” 

“So what happened to them? Dean and Father Castiel?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Bobby retorted. Was it his imagination, or did Bobby sound slightly defensive? 

“You don’t think they had anything to do with Dad’s death, do you?”

“Why would they?” 

Sam detected a note of uncertainty in Bobby’s voice. He decided to push his luck. “You do, don’t you?”

“What the hell makes you think that?” Bobby spluttered. 

“C’mon, Bobby. Don’t bullshit me.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to give me attitude?” Sam winced. “If they did do somethin’—and I’m not sayin’ they did—it was self-defense.” 

Bobby’s voice was pure certainty. “Why would you think that?”

“You don’t have to hide anythin’ from me, Sam. I know about the shit your dad did. To both of you.”

“What?” Sam clenched his fists. If Bobby had known, why hadn’t he done anything about it?

“Dean told me,” Bobby continued. 

“What?” Sam gasped. A blinding fury hit him. Dean had always forced Sam to keep their dad’s secrets, and yet he had gone and spilled it all to Bobby. Fuckin’ hypocrite.

“He didn’t want to,” Bobby expounded. “It was like pullin’ teeth gettin’ the truth outta him. But I did, eventually. With a nudge from Cas.” 

“Cas knew?!” Sam choked out. Un-fuckin’-believable. Dean blabbing to a priest.

Bobby snorted. “I don’t think it was hard for him to figure it out when Dean returned home from his dad’s looking like a human punching bag.” 

A renewed contempt for Dean erupted into Sam’s consciousness. Why had Dean let Dad treat him like that? Still, after all those years?

Bobby’s gaze softened. “I’m sorry, Sam. I shoulda noticed somethin’. It just never even entered my mind, that John could be like . . . _that_.” 

Sam appreciated the apology. “Thank you.” Sam had one more question. “Why do you think it was self-defense?”

“ _If_ they had anything to do with John’s death,” Bobby amended. 

“Yeah. Okay. Why?”

“That day, before those two disappeared . . . it was chaos. Dean came in and couldn’t do anythin’ right. When I asked him about it, he confessed what’d been goin’ on with Cas.” Sam’s mouth hung open. “I don’t think he meant to,” Bobby theorized. “But anyway. John came in, and I think he overheard, because he kept going on about demons and I don’t even know what the fuck, but it didn’t sound good. Then he ran out of here, and Dean chased him, and the next day, Dean didn’t show up for work. Neither did Cas.” 

Hmm. Sam didn’t know what to make of that information. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” Bobby sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Wherever those boys are, I hope they’re doin’ good. They deserve it.” 

xxxxxxxxxxx

With a heavy heart, Sam dropped the car off at the rental company’s local branch then took a taxi to the airport. This was it. He was going to see Jess tonight, and he’d have to reveal what had happened with Ruby. While flying, Sam felt nauseous, his trepidation and nervousness mixing with the rumbling of the plane as it weathered a particularly troublesome spot of turbulence. 

Had his trip home been worth it? Sam wasn’t sure. He’d wanted to know the truth about Dad, but he’d merely accumulated a confusing set of puzzle pieces. Dean ostensibly estranged from Dad, except there had been a visit in which Dean had received the customary treatment. For some reason, Dean had moved in with a priest he met at a diner. Castiel Novak. Then they became lovers.

And if that wasn’t weird enough, there was Novak’s backstory. Growing up in a cult in Montana. Leaving the cult. The cult now apparently looking for him, accusing him of murder even though Novak hadn’t been to Angel Falls in fifteen years. (If Anna was to be believed. And though she was a complete stranger to him, Sam did believe her. Something about her seemed so artlessly earnest.) 

Anna and those other few, the minority who viewed Novak and Dean’s relationship positively. Jo, and presumably Ellen. That parishioner, Lisa Braeden. Bobby, who’d finally learned about Dad’s abusiveness.

Dean’s phone, the ease with which Dean and Novak had texted each other. The video of them together as Novak cooked, Dean looking almost radiant with happiness. 

Dean’s former shiftlessness and alcoholism evaporating as he became acquainted with Novak.

Like Bobby had said, it sounded like Novak had been a positive influence. 

But then what the hell had occurred with Dad, and why had the pair vanished? Popular opinion pegged Dean and Father Castiel as murderers. Bobby hadn’t denied the possibility of their responsibility.

Had people been deceived by Novak? Was he really a killer who’d finally showed his true colors, first offing Dad then Dean? 

Sam shivered at the thought.

He wished he could see Dean again. Say he was sorry, rekindle their relationship. Ironic how you never knew what you needed until it was snatched away from you. 

When the plane touched down in California, Sam took several deep breaths and prepared himself for Jess.

She met him by the baggage carousel, exclaiming “Sam!” as she somehow managed to enfold him in a hug while keeping Mariana secure in her arms. “See that!” Jess cooed when she pulled back. “Daddy’s home!” 

Mariana giggled, and Sam scooped her up into his arms, planted a gentle kiss on her brow. Jess smiled up at him, and Mariana gurgled, “Dada!”

“Yeah,” Sam babbled back. “It’s dada.” Mariana laughed again. 

Love throbbed in Sam’s sinking heart. Right this minute, everything was perfect, and he lamented his betrayal all the more.

The truth would ruin this moment of tranquility, and he didn’t have the strength for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your feedback! Thanks for reading! :)


	8. The Book of Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for physical and emotional/psychological torture.
> 
> This is a rather long-ish chapter, and it's where the majority of the torture happens.

Dean sat in the metal chair unfettered. He didn’t remember anyone unlocking the handcuffs, but he had no complaints. He chanced opening his eyes, and to his surprise, those bastards were gone. Instead, Cas gazed back at him. Dean blinked, trying to will away what must be a hallucination, but the image of Cas stubbornly remained. Perhaps this was real after all.

“Cas?” he croaked as he rubbed at his raw wrists. 

Cas offered one of his adorable small smiles. “Hello, Dean.”

“What’s going on?” Dean asked as he rested his upper limbs on the armrest. “What’re you doin’ here? Not that I’m not happy to see ya, but I thought they . . . ” Dean left the sentence unspoken, but he knew Cas would understand him. 

Cas crossed his left leg over his right one. “Yes, I have been confined. But they let me out to talk to you.”

Dean frowned. “Why would they do that?” Jesus, he probably sounded like a dick, but these Brethren people, from what he’d gathered, were merciless. Why would they allow Cas and him to engage in leisurely chats? 

Cas shrugged. “I don’t understand it myself. But let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth, shall we?”

Dean grinned. “No. God, I’m glad to see ya.” 

“I am glad to see you as well.” Cas stood up, approached Dean, and deposited himself in Dean’s lap. He laughed as he pecked Dean on the lips, gripped a shoulder with one hand and slipped the other one underneath Dean’s shirt. Dean moaned, and Cas kissed him deeply before pulling back and looking at him grimly.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked. 

Cas bit his lower lip, his crystal blue eyes boring into Dean’s. “This isn’t right, Dean.”

An uneasiness settled into the pit of his stomach. “What’re you talkin’ about, Cas?” 

He waved a hand at the small space between their faces. “This. You and me. Together.”

Dean sighed. “Cas, we’ve already been through this.” 

Cas skimmed the tip of his index finger over Dean’s bottom lip before retreating back to his chair. “I am fond of you, Dean,” he declared. “Which is why I want you to make the right choice.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, yeah? And what would that be?” 

Cas clasped his hands in his lap, his long fingers slotting into each other. “We can’t continue our relationship as it was. I’m sorry.”

Dean winced at the clinical detachment in his voice. “So what are we, then? Friends?” 

“Something like that.” What the fuck did that mean? “I have realized the error of my ways,” Cas continued, tapping fingers on the gray slacks where they cloaked his thighs. He wore a white dress shirt, too; the outfit suited him. Something seemed off, but Dean couldn’t quite pinpoint it. “I have spent half of my life living in sin, and . . . well, I want to rejoin the fold. They are most merciful, the Angelic Brethren. Zachariah said you could stay, too, if you take the vow. I would very much like you to, Dean. I want you to be saved. With all my heart.”

The vague unease increased until Dean felt as if he would choke on it. “You can’t be serious,” Dean objected. 

Cas tilted his head in that characteristic way of his. “Of course I’m serious, Dean. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“After all they’ve done to you?!” 

Cas sighed as if he were dealing with a thick-headed child. “It was nothing I didn’t deserve. I was naughty. Doubtful. I turned away from the truth.”

“I don’t believe this,” Dean muttered. 

Cas’s eyes grew sorrowful. “Is that a no?” Dean nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he declared.

It hit him, why the pants bothered him: he didn’t think Cas owned a pair in gray. Maybe he was wrong, but as he strained his memory, he couldn’t conjure an image of Cas in gray slacks. 

Cas stood up once more, stalking toward Dean as he stared down at him. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he avowed. “I didn’t want it to come to this. But we’ve got to burn that sin out of you.”

Yes, Dean was certain now, this was definitely not real. Those were the words of another. “Naomi?” he ventured. 

Cas’s eyes swept the room. “Where? I don’t see her.” How could he have thought those were Cas’s eyes? They were too cold.

“You. You’re Naomi.” 

Cas appeared puzzled. “No, Dean. I’m Castiel.”

Dean laughed, because why not? This was friggin’ absurd. “Unbelievable.” 

Cas—or rather, the apparition of him—drew out a sword from somewhere behind him and pointed it at Dean’s neck. “I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt. Exorcising demons is often painful.”

Dean’s mouth hung open, which was a damn costly mistake, for before he perceived what was happening, the sword was thrust into his mouth, the blade piercing his throat, and he would’ve screamed if he could’ve. Blood spurted from his mouth, dribbling down his chin and staining his olive green shirt. 

There was no fucking way this was Cas. If Cas wasn’t real, then maybe he wasn’t getting stabbed in the damn throat. But the pain was all too real, and he gagged on his blood.

These were some freakin’ sick mind games. 

He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t talk, so instead he thought. _You’re not Cas, you’re not him, how dare you impersonate him you bitch, I know none of this shit is really happening, I don’t know what the fuck you did to me, but I’ve figured you out, bitch, and this shit doesn’t scare me because it isn’t real, even if it hurts like hell._

He closed his eyes, and whispers drifted to him. 

“It’s not working.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“You’ve got to try something else, Hester. It’s not fooling Dameal.”

He felt his wrists being bound to the armrests once more, and when he dared to open his eyes again, Cas was gone. Nevertheless, he still felt the sticky residue of blood on his face, and glancing down, he spotted splatters of it on his shirt. He lifted his eyes to find Naomi studying him with dispassionate curiosity. 

xxxxxxxxxx

After the first few days, Castiel lost track of time, a grueling listlessness overcoming him as the minutes ticked by. In order to prevent Castiel from attempting suicide again, the Brethren had set a guard over him during the daytime. At night, it was too dark for Castiel to see anything, so they left him alone. Whoever watched him mostly stared silently at him during their shift, but sometimes they would jeer at him, too. Ion in particular seemed to enjoy the latter activity. 

The one exception to all the unpleasantness was Samandriel. He would take the time to shave Castiel so he wouldn’t become too scruffy. He also was the only one who would empty the bucket of urine. Without him, Castiel would’ve had to resort to peeing on the floor.

Samandriel couldn’t let Castiel out of the cell, though, which meant no showering or laundering. Castiel knew he stank, but after a while, his nose barely registered the smell. 

But these discomforts were trivialities compared to his worries about Dean. The same questions circulated in his mind: Why had Dean thought there was blood? What serum had Zachariah and Naomi been talking about? What were they doing to Dean now? Was he okay?

He took several days to work up the courage to ask Samandriel about Dean. 

One morning, after nothing but silence for an hour, Castiel inquired, “Have you seen Dean?”

Samandriel shook his head. “No, Castiel. I’m sorry.” 

“Do you think you could? See him? I just want to know if . . . if he’s okay.” Castiel’s voice broke.

Samandriel’s countenance grew sympathetic. “No, Castiel. I’m not allowed in that building.” 

“But you’re at the Next Level, are you not?”

“Yes, but only the Elders are permitted to go in there.” 

“Dammit,” Castiel huffed. Samandriel continued to gaze at him with pity, but Castiel didn’t want his useless pity, he wanted Samandriel to ensure Dean was safe. “You said you wished you could help me,” Castiel retorted.

“Help _you_ , Castiel. Not him.” 

“You can help me by helping him,” Castiel snapped.

“What would you have me do?” 

“Check on him. Make sure they’re not hurting him.”

“I’m sorry, Castiel. There is nothing I can do.” 

_Coward_ , Castiel wanted to spit, but he knew Samandriel was right. Nothing short of breaking Dean out would save him, and Samandriel was too devoted to the Brethren to agree to such a scheme.

Which led him to more questions. How could Samandriel tolerate it here? As a member of the Next Level, he must know the deplorable deeds perpetrated by the Brethren. Castiel sensed that Samandriel would feel guilt-ridden about committing the same acts Castiel had all those years ago. Then why did he stay? Why did he have so much faith in the Angelic Brethren? 

Or had he misread Samandriel?

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean supposed he must be dreaming, but he didn’t mind. It was preferable to being manhandled by Naomi and her minions. 

He was back home. Not Dad’s cabin, but what he’d come to think of as the home of his heart, Cas’s house. He lounged on the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, leaning his head back against a pillow propped up against the armrest, his eyes closed, his lips curled into a smile.

“Are you going to give me some room so I can sit down?” Cas growled from somewhere above him. 

Dean bit his lip to prevent himself from laughing. “Dude, there’s the recliner.” Just as he heard the rustling of Cas’s legs, Dean’s eyes flew open, and he caught Cas’s wrist. “Oh, no you don’t,” he breathed as he jerked Cas onto his lap. Cas giggled, affection tingeing his eyes. Dean placed his hands on Cas’s cheeks and drew him closer, reaching for Cas with his lips. The clash of teeth and tongue, and heaven couldn’t be better than this.

“Dean,” Cas whispered against his lips when he pulled back. Dean threw an arm around Cas’s shoulders and buried his face in Cas’s neck, feeling Cas’s groans as he teased the skin with his lips. 

“I love you, Cas,” Dean muttered into Cas’s skin. He felt Cas’s hands wrap around his chin, and a second later, he lifted Dean’s head until their eyes met.

“I want to look at you, Dean,” Cas explained. And damn if Dean hadn’t seen prettier eyes. His grin widened. 

An electric shock ripped through his core.

“What the fuck?!” Dean exclaimed, and Cas’s form disappeared. 

“What have I told you about cursing, Dameal?” Naomi chastised. He glanced around, but he couldn’t find her.

“What the fuck?” Dean repeated. 

“Your name isn’t Dean. You shouldn’t respond to it.”

“What the hell? ’Course it is.” 

“We have already established this. Your name is Dameal. I suggest you remember that if you don’t want anything to happen to your precious Castiel.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Dean sighed. 

“Now. Don’t you dare answer to that name.”

“What, Dean?”

“Yes."

“Even in my dreams?” he asked, incredulous. 

“Even in your dreams,” Naomi confirmed. “We can see into you, Dameal. We’ll know.”

It seemed like she was telling the damn truth. How else would she have known to interrupt the imaginary rendezvous with Cas? 

“If he calls you Dean, you must correct him,” Naomi commanded.

“Okay,” Dean ground out, and now he was back in the room, attached to the chair, Naomi’s eyes glued to him. That bald guy stood next to her, a syringe in his hand. 

Naomi waved at Dean. “He’s yours, Zachariah.”

More of that stabbing in his head. Why were they always jabbing that thing into his temple? What the fuck were they doing to him? 

His vision wavered, and he felt a hand squeezing his neck. “Now, Dameal, the real lesson is about to begin,” Zachariah hissed into his ear.

xxxxxxxxx 

Samandriel leaned back in the chair near Castiel’s cell, scratching at his chin and thinking. At least, that’s what it seemed he was doing. Curiosity’s itch had grown too strong once again, so Castiel interrupted Samandriel’s reverie.

“Why are you here?” Castiel inquired. 

Samandriel’s eyes darted to him. “It’s my turn to watch over you,” he answered, puzzled.

“No. I mean, why are you here with the Angelic Brethren?” 

Samandriel frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Even after knowing everything they do?” 

“What are you referring to?”

Castiel reigned in his irritability. “All of it, Samandriel. The thefts. The kidnappings. The harsh punishments.” 

Several minutes elapsed before Samandriel replied. “I admit, some of it is troubling. But we do a lot of good, too.”

Castiel crossed his arms. “What do the Brethren do that is so ‘good’?” he grated out. 

“We take in the less fortunate. Those with no home. We give them somewhere to belong.”

“Then you kill them when they disagree with you,” Castiel countered. 

“Hmm. I assume you are speaking of Balthazar. Listen, Castiel. I know he was your friend, but he was no good. Do you know what he did before he joined us?” Castiel shook his head. “He was a drug dealer. A member of some gang in L.A. He came here to escape his enemies. He didn’t care about us and our teachings.” In a low voice, he added, “Or you.”

Castiel seethed. How dare Samandriel talk about Balthazar like that! Where did he learn all that stuff, anyway? From the Elders? How did he even know that was the truth? 

_Calm down_ , he told himself. _Samandriel is naïve. He still takes everything at face value._ Castiel couldn’t resist clenching his fists, though. “When I was with the Brethren, he was my only friend.”

Samandriel sighed. “Still. There’s no saving someone like that.” 

In Kansas, many people had said the same of Dean. They’d been wrong. No one had the right to make those judgments. Dean was a good person, and Balthazar had possessed the same potential. He wanted to rage at Samandriel, but he punched a wall instead. Splinters embedded themselves into his knuckles, producing dots of blood. He wiped them off on his shirt then noticed Samandriel staring at him, wide-eyed and frightened.

xxxxxxxxxxx 

Dean constantly dreamed of Castiel. Sometimes he called him Dean, and sometimes he called him Dameal. If he responded to Dean, intense pain flooded through his body. If he responded to Dameal, Zachariah praised him. If he didn’t respond to Dameal, there was more pain. If he corrected Castiel when he addressed him as Dean, he felt a hand stroke through his hair. When he imagined it was Castiel’s hand, he shivered with pleasure. When he remembered that the hand probably belonged to Zachariah or Naomi, he shivered with dread.

But the pain became so excruciating that he began relishing any gentle touch, even when it came from those Brethren bastards. Eventually, he craved Zachariah and Naomi’s approval so much that he shook with need. 

They would smooth his hair, caress his forehead, and he’d lean into their touches, comforted, glad to have anything replace the pain.

“I think we’re ready for the next stage,” Zachariah pronounced one day. “You know what to do?” 

“Yes,” Naomi replied.

xxxxxxxxxx 

“When I saw Dean,” Castiel told Samandriel, “Naomi and Zachariah were talking about a serum. Do you know what they meant?” 

“No,” Samandriel claimed, but his countenance belied him, his face growing pale, his eyes almost bulging out of their sockets.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean was lying in bed, _his_ bed, the one with the memory foam, cradling Cas in his arms as the priest dozed. He kissed Cas on the temple near the hairline, and Cas stirred, blinking up at him lazily. 

“Hi,” Dean whispered as he smiled down at Cas.

“Hello,” Cas replied, his husky voice soft. 

Dean’s hands skimmed over Cas’s bare arms, ceasing their motion when they reached his hips. Cas sighed contentedly and leaned into Dean, his forehead resting on Dean’s.

Dean’s eyes met Cas’s, and he nipped at the corner of Cas’s mouth. “Morning, love,” Dean breathed. 

“Good morning,” Cas responded.

A red tint flickered in Cas’s eyes, lasting barely a second, and Dean wasn’t sure whether he’d imagined it or not. “Cas?” he murmured. 

“Hmm?”

“What—” And there it was again. 

“He’s not real,” a female voice interjected.

Dean examined the room but couldn’t find the source of the voice. “What the fuck was that?” 

Cas furrowed his brow. “What?”

“Did you hear that woman?” 

“No.”

“That’s because he’s not real,” the woman reiterated, and maybe she was right. Otherwise, why did that red gleam keep flashing in Cas’s eyes? 

“Dean, are you all right?” Cas asked.

“It’s Dameal,” Dean muttered without hesitation. He remembered that this answer used to pain him, but the new name had grown comforting, familiar. 

“Dameal. Are you all right?” Cas repeated.

“Fine,” Dean lied. A vague apprehension swelled in his gut. 

“You must kill him, Dameal,” the woman declared.

“What the fuck?!” Dean fired back. 

Cas bolted upright. “Dean—”

“Dameal.” 

“Dameal. What is it? Why are you yelling?”

“Kill him,” the woman said again. 

Why did he recognize that voice?

. . . Oh, right. He wasn’t home after all. He was trapped in a building with Naomi and her Angelic Brethren pals. So, this was a dream. 

“Kill him.”

Dean wouldn’t truly be killing Cas. It wasn’t real. 

But it felt too intense not to be real. He ran a hand through Cas’s hair, and Cas relaxed under the motion.

“I gave you an order, soldier,” Naomi pressed. 

Soldier? Dean wasn’t a damn soldier. That’s what Dad had called him, a soldier. The delight with which Naomi had made that pronouncement . . . she’d known how the word would resonate with him. But how? How the fuck had she dug so deeply into his head? And what gave her the friggin’ _right_ to do that?

He bristled with anger. “No!” 

“Obey, soldier. Or you’ll be punished.”

“Like I fuckin’ care!” No way was he ever _killing Cas_. 

The scene before him disappeared, and he was back in the room with Naomi, Ion and Hester behind her.

A knife cut into his skin. 

He screamed.

Naomi grinned, and he watched as Naomi stripped off one chunk of skin after another. 

xxxxxxxxxx

Today was Samandriel’s day to attend him, and Castiel was poised to ask his last question as soon as Samandriel arrived. 

Why had Dean thought he was bleeding when he wasn’t?

Perhaps Samandriel didn’t know the answer. Likely that was so. If the Brethren permitted only Elders to enter the building they held Dean in, then Samandriel probably hadn’t seen what they were doing to him. Still, there was no harm in asking. 

The sun’s rays filtered through the slats of the barn, gradually growing brighter. However, Samandriel hadn’t yet appeared.

Finally, he heard someone approaching, but when the person stepped into his line of vision, it wasn’t Samandriel. 

Rather, it was a teenaged girl.

He didn’t understand. 

Her hands shaking, she unlocked his door and slipped in a tray with water, toast, and a thin slice of cheese. After completing the task, she scurried to the chair and sank into it.

Castiel studied her for a minute, and she blushed under his gaze. She wore a loose white dress that fell to her ankles, and her curly black hair hit just below her shoulders. Striking gray eyes adorned what was an otherwise average face. 

“Who are you?” Castiel asked.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” she squeaked. 

They exchanged no more words even though she sat there all day, her hands twisting in the folds of her dress. He could feel her eyes on him, but anytime he turned to face her, she quickly looked away.

Who was she, and why was she guarding him today? Surely she was too young to be at the Next Level. So far, though, only members of the Next Level and a couple of the Elders had stood watch over him. 

She could belong to the Next Level. After all, Castiel himself had been sixteen when the Brethren had promoted him. But that had been unprecedented.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean lost count of how many times the cycle occurred. It seemed half the time he was dreaming about Cas; then half the time he was stuck in this room with Naomi or Zachariah and their henchmen. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept a wink. If he was dreaming, he must be sleeping, he reflected, but it didn’t feel like he was sleeping. Sometimes he wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t. Occasionally he thought the Brethren and their room were the lies and the time spent with Cas was the truth. But why would he dream about the Brethren people treating him like this? Cas was the one who had history with them, not him. And their punishments felt all too real.

Of course, the pleasure he experienced with Cas felt real as well. 

No, he didn’t have the faintest idea about what was actually happening anymore.

Was he eating? Why was he still alive? With the way the Brethren treated him, he didn’t think he could stand to consume any food; their carving made his stomach to churn. 

But he’d been here for weeks, right? Or did it just feel like weeks? In any event, if he hadn’t been eating, or if he’d been drinking no water, for that matter, then he would be dead by now. Right?

But just as he couldn’t recall when he slept, he couldn’t remember being given any food or water. 

One day, Naomi handed him a mirror, and he shrank at the reflection staring back at him. His face was raw and blistered, patches of skin ripped from his neck. He knew the rest of his body must look just as grotesque.

“Do you see that?” she goaded. “You’re a monster.” 

And he was.

But Cas was still there, treating him as if he was someone precious, and he couldn’t control his tears. Then Cas was fucking him, looking into his eyes, having done no prep work, using no lube, and it burned, burned, burned. He wanted the burn to consume him, anything to get him out of here. 

But the pain grew to be too much, and yes, he liked it rough, but not _this_ rough, and he didn’t think he could take it, so he begged, “Cas, please, please, stop, you’re hurting me.”

Cas smirked. “I want it to hurt.” 

He resumed pounding into Dean, and Dean could feel a scream crawling up his throat, a scream he forced himself to clamp down. That red glow had entered Cas’s eyes, and so this must be a fake Cas.

“Kill him, Dameal. Kill him now,” Naomi pronounced from above. 

A sword materialized in his hand; it resembled those brandished by the Brethren.

He should obey, right? This Cas wasn’t even real. What was the harm? 

He couldn’t bring himself to do it, though.

Dean yelped as Cas delved deeper than he’d thought possible; then Cas’s head tumbled off of his shoulders onto Dean’s chest. 

Dean shrieked so loudly he swore he almost blew out his eardrums.

He hadn’t beheaded Cas; his sword was clean. 

Naomi bent down and retrieved Cas’s head, holding it aloft with a triumphant smile, a bloody sword in her other hand. Dean stared, sure he would throw up any minute.

“See, Dameal? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Dean clapped a hand over his mouth. “Your turn,” she continued. “If you don’t want to be a monster anymore, you must kill him. If you want to save him, you must kill him.” 

What the fuck did that mean?

He must’ve spoken the question aloud, for Naomi added, “If you don’t obey soon, we’ll execute Castiel. Kill him in your mind, and we’ll allow him to live.” 

Dean didn’t understand how any of this made sense. Why did they want him to kill Cas in his dreams? Why make that a stipulation for saving Cas?

But whatever the reason, he had no choice but to play along. He must save Cas. 

xxxxxxxxxx

The next day, the girl returned, this time with a companion, a thin brunette. Castiel eyed the duo warily. 

After the girl from yesterday pushed a tray into Castiel’s stall, the two stood there and stared at him. The new girl asked, “Is this him?” The other girl nodded. The brunette frowned and glared at Castiel. He withered under her gaze, which made him feel as if he were a speck of dirt under a microscope. “You reek,” she pointed out as she wrinkled her nose before sneering. “You infidels make me sick.” She turned to her friend. “See him? You don’t want to become like that, do you?” The black-haired girl shook her head. “Good. Remember that. If you continue down the path you’re on now, this—” She pointed a finger at Castiel. “—will be what you become.” The pronouncement complete, she stomped out of the barn.

The remaining girl sat down in the chair, resting her hands on the sides of another floor-length dress, blue this time. “I’m sorry about her,” she said. 

“I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to me,” Castiel replied. He winced at his tone, which sounded ruder than he’d intended. Truthfully, he just didn’t want her to get into trouble. If she’d been ordered not to socialize with him and was caught doing so, then she’d be severely punished, possibly with public self-flagellation. He shuddered at the thought.

She shrugged. “I’m not. But Samandriel said you were all right.” 

“Samandriel?” he echoed. “You know Samandriel?” How dumb. Of course she knew Samandriel. Everyone here knew each other. But she’d spoken about him as if they were close friends.

“Yes. He’s the only one who understands. I hate it here.” She gripped the cloth of her dress. “I hate it so much. I told Naarah. Big mistake. Now I have to watch you all day for two weeks.” The girl lowered her voice. “That was her. She’s devout, and I guess she doesn’t understand my doubts. When I mentioned them to her, she reported me, and Zachariah said spending time with you would show me the evil of doubting.” 

Did she mean Naarah _Chad_? She must. The girl he’d help kidnap all those years ago . . . that had been her in here, grown older.

“I’m Shiphrah,” the girl ended with. 

“Shiphrah _Reed_?” Castiel exclaimed.

She narrowed her eyes. “Yes. How did you know?” 

“I, um, I was here when you were a baby.” That was partly true. He’d been involved in her kidnapping, and Uriel had made him watch as her father was beaten to death. Uriel had made it plain that the man’s demise was his fault. But he couldn’t tell Shiphrah about that. She’d hate him, and much as he despised thinking in a calculated manner, he could use her as a potential ally if he played his cards right, as Dean would say.

Dean. Thinking of him gave Castiel a sense of foreboding. 

“They said you were a murderer,” Shiphrah resumed. “That you killed one of us.”

“I did.” 

“You don’t strike me as a murderer.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.” 

“Hmm. Yes. But Samandriel trusts you.”

“He does?!” Why would he tell someone that? 

Shiphrah ignored his outburst. “Who did you kill?”

“Balthazar.” 

She wrinkled her brow. “No. That can’t be right. I’ve heard of him. He was damned, was he not?”

“Yes.” _By me_. 

“Why would they say you murdered one of us, then? Are you sure you didn’t kill someone else?”

What a question. Castiel laughed bitterly. “Well, there was Dean’s father, but not anyone here.” 

She froze. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.” 

“Oh.” She paused, licking her lips nervously for several moments. Eventually, she inquired, “Who’s Dean?”

“Why are you still talking to me? I’m a murderer. Aren’t you afraid of me?” 

“I don’t know,” she answered, and at least that sounded honest. “But as I said, Samandriel trusts you. And I trust Samandriel.”

“Okay.” He waited a second before continuing. “You don’t know who Dean is?” She shook her head. “Dameal?” he tried. Another shake of the head. He needed to gauge where she stood in Brethren hierarchy. “Are you at the Next Level?” 

She snorted. “No. I’m too young for that. And problematic, at this point.”

So Shiphrah was an average member, and she knew nothing about Dean. That meant only people at the Next Level and the Elders were aware of him. 

Perhaps they were afraid the majority wouldn’t approve of whatever it was they were doing to Dean.

An ominous thought. 

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean stumbled into the kitchen, where he found Cas setting the table for two and placing a huge stack of flapjacks at the center. When he caught Dean’s eye, he smiled. 

“Good morning, Dean.”

“’Morning, Cas. Call me Dameal.” 

Cas nodded then waved a hand at Dean’s usual spot, which contained a plate filled with eggs and bacon. “Bon appetit,” Cas urged.

“Man, Cas, this is awesome,” Dean commented as he sat down. 

“Thank you,” Cas replied as he took his seat opposite Dean. Dean bit into his food, and it didn’t taste quite right. Still, he grinned at Cas and complimented everything, not wanting to hurt his feelings. Then he wondered what the fuck was going on. Cas was the most amazing cook he knew.

“That’s because he’s not Castiel,” a woman put in, and then she appeared a few feet behind Castiel. 

Naomi. She had one of those swords in her hand. She swung it at Castiel’s head, and Dean shouted, “Look out!” But the blade when straight through him, not leaving a mark, and he didn’t react to the strike. In fact, it seemed like he hadn’t even heard Dean’s warning.

“I told you, he’s not real,” Naomi reminded him. Now she stood right next to Dean, and she handed him the sword. “Kill him.” 

“No,” Dean protested.

“Remember,” Naomi taunted. “You must kill him to save him.” She gestured toward Cas. “C’mon. This one’s not even real.

Oh, yeah. There was that. He had to save Cas. 

Tears obscured his vision, but his mind was made up. He pointed the sword at Cas, aiming for his heart, and pushed down. Blood spurted, and Dean winced.

Cas’s eyes clouded up. “Why?” he mouthed before his head lolled onto the table. 

Dean threw a hand over his mouth as he began to cry. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered.

Naomi patted him on the head as if he were a dog, and fuckin’ hell, but it was soothing. “Good job, Dameal.” He was back in the large room now, his hands free. She placed a warm bowl in them, and the smell made his stomach rumble. “Eat.” 

He drank the broth, and damn, but it was the best thing he’d tasted in his life. As his stomach filled up, he sighed with content.

He should feel ashamed of enjoying this soup after what he’d done to Cas (even if it had been a dream). But he couldn’t bring himself to stop savoring the indulgence. Wasn’t there someone in the Bible who’d sold his birthright for a bowl of soup? Esau, right? Cas would know. 

Naomi had promised to let Cas go if Dean killed him in the dream. Well, he’d done it, and he hoped to God that was the end of this charade.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Castiel had relived this moment millions of times before, but this was different. 

He stood in a field, Elders surrounding him, but Balthazar nowhere in sight. Maybe Balthazar had gotten away and Castiel wouldn’t have to damn him after all.

But now the Elders gripped _Castiel’s_ shoulders, and they called to someone striding toward them. As he got closer, Castiel recognized him, and his heart sank. Soon, Dean was mere inches from him, an angel-blade raised in his hand. “Go ahead, Dameal,” Zachariah called from behind Castiel. Dean pointed the angel-blade at his throat. 

“Dean, please don’t do this,” Castiel implored.

Dean ignored his plea and ran the blade down his neck until its tip pressed against his heart. As Castiel observed his movements and mannerisms, he realized the man in front of him wasn’t Dean at all. He wore Dean’s body, but it wasn’t him. There was a cruelty, a nothingness, in his eyes he’d never seen in Dean’s. 

The Brethren had turned him into Dameal and killed Dean.

“Damn you,” Dameal proclaimed as he struck the blade against his heart. “Damn you,” he pronounced again, then another strike. “Damn you.” Strike. “Damn you.” Strike. 

As his life force evaporated from him, Castiel toppled, landing on his knees as tears streamed down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he breathed, for what’d happened to him was Castiel’s fault.

A nothingness slammed into him. 

But then his eyes flew open, and he thrashed on the ground as he awoke from the dream.

He gasped as he felt something skitter across his legs. A rat he couldn’t see in the darkness. He shivered and hugged himself as he sat up. 

That scene in his dream, that was what the Brethren wanted. All those days ago, he’d noticed the blankness in Dean’s eyes—how much worse would it be now?

They would succeed if no one stopped them. But what could he do? He’d had plenty of time to wrack his brains, and he hadn’t thought of anything. He let out a harsh laugh, which became a cough, which turned into sobs.

Nothing short of a miracle would work, and Castiel didn’t believe in those, not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if this chapter makes sense or not, but we're done with most of the torture here. 
> 
> In the next chapter, the Sam and Dean/Cas chapters will merge.
> 
> As ever, thanks for reading! Your feedback is welcome!


	9. Mysterious Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some torture in this chapter. Not as much as in the last one, but it's still present.
> 
> Season 9 of _Supernatural_ comes this week! I'm so excited! Too bad my Tuesday nights are busy, though . . . I'm going to spend all Wednesday counting down to when I can finally watch the premiere.

After returning from Kansas, Sam fell into a melancholy state. He’d resolved to tell Jess about the incident with Ruby as soon as he’d arrived home, but he could never find the right moment to bring it up. There was probably never a right moment for this sort of thing, he reflected, but some moments worked better than others. Or so he told himself in an effort to justify his stalling. 

Meanwhile, he kept Jess at a distance. It was starting to affect her; she smiled less often, and a strain entered the air between them.

She’d planned a wonderful birthday for him, cooked his favorite meal and bought him a freakin’ I-pad, but when they tumbled into bed that night, he remembered the last time he’d had sex, remembered that it had been with Ruby, and he’d gone cold. He rolled onto his side, turning his back on Jess, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He shook it off then heard a stifled sob. 

“Are you okay, Sam?” Jess asked.

“Fuckin’ peachy,” he muttered, sounding more hostile than he’d intended. 

“What did I do? Whatever it is, I’m sorry,” she sniffed.

Sam flipped over and faced her. “You didn’t do anything,” he assured her. “It’s not you, love, it’s me.” Had he seriously just uttered that cliché? Great. Like she’d believe that. (Even if it was the truth.) 

Her eyes hardened. “In that case. What is it with you?”

Maybe now would be the time to confess what’d happened with Ruby, but he couldn’t make his voice work. Jess sighed and grabbed a pillow. “Forget it. I’ll sleep on the couch,” she announced as she stood up. 

Sam sprang to his feet. “No. I’m sorry. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t want your damn chivalry,” she retorted. “ _I’ll_ sleep on the couch.” With that, she stomped out of the room. 

Sam stared at the ceiling, tears slipping down his cheeks. That night, he didn’t sleep at all.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Sam’s guilt about the Ruby incident grew to such proportions he felt almost as if it would suffocate him. He realized his trip to Kansas had been more trouble than it was worth. What’d he really gotten out of it? Nothing but the most foolish decision of his life. He still knew practically nothing about Dad, Dean, and Father Castiel Novak. Sure, he’d learned about the affair, as well as Novak’s childhood background, but how did that help him? It didn’t tell him how Dad had died, and it didn’t tell him whether or not Dean and/or Novak were involved. 

Dean and Novak had vanished, and he hadn’t the slightest clue where to find them. Only by locating them could he discover the truth about Dad. Only by locating them could he reconnect with Dean and apologize for shunning him during the past decade.

But Dean and Novak were fugitives. If he found Dean, would he have to turn him in? Would he have to let him go as soon as he got him back? 

He would worry about that later, he decided, if he even found Dean. First, the truth would out.

But how did he know Dean would tell him the truth? Jess was right—Dean could’ve changed a lot over the past ten years. He had been sleeping with a man, after all, something Sam had never thought possible. Much as he hated to admit it, he had to prepare himself for the possibility that present-day Dean was different than the Dean he remembered. 

There was no use worrying about this stuff, though. The chances of finding Dean were slim.

He’d just about given up on the idea of ever seeing Dean again when something odd occurred as he walked back to his office after lunch. 

Someone tugged on his sleeve, and he whirled around to face a woman with brown hair.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare ya. I have a message for you,” she said. 

“Excuse me, but who are you?” Sam asked.

“You don’t have to be rude.” Yeah, Sam supposed he had sounded snippy, but it wasn’t like stopping strangers on the sidewalk was normal. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Pamela Barnes.” They shook hands, and she passed him a business card. 

“Psychic?” Sam said skeptically as he skimmed the card.

“Yeah. And I’ve been given a message for you.” 

“Uh-huh.”

She seemed to gather her thoughts before continuing. “Okay. You will find what you seek where it all began. Look for the cover.” 

Sam scrunched his eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

She shrugged. “Beats me. I just deliver ’em.” She smiled. “Whatever it is you’re looking for—good luck.” 

“Thanks.” She smacked his ass as she strode past him, and he blushed.

She was probably a lunatic, he concluded. Or perhaps she’d been trying to drum up business. If so, she had a poor marketing strategy. 

But Barnes’s words nagged at him, demanding he decipher their meaning.

Okay. So what was he seeking? 

A couple of days later, he understood—it was a reference to Dean. Wasn’t it?

Or maybe it was just coincidence. Wasn’t everyone looking for something? And what would blankets have to do with it, anyway?

But instinct insisted the message was important, so he pondered it some more. _Back where it all began_ —what could that be? Not Kansas. He’d already searched there. 

One day, out of idle curiosity, he googled the name “Castiel” when he was at work. He learned that Castiel was said to be the angel of Thursday and that the name meant “My cover is God.”

 _Cover_. 

Barnes had said to “look for the cover.” Did that refer to Novak?

 _Where it all began_. Maybe “it” wasn’t Dean and Novak’s relationship or Dad’s death. Maybe “it” was Castiel Novak himself. 

If those people in Angel Falls had apprehended Novak . . . he could find Novak and discuss Dean with him.

A big _if_ , but not an impossibility. 

There was only one way to find out. He had to return to Angel Falls.

xxxxxxxxxx 

The first time apparently hadn’t been enough. Taking turns, Naomi and Zachariah forced Dean to kill Cas over and over and over. He’d killed Cas several times in many places—the kitchen, the living room, the shower, Cas’s bedroom, his bedroom, the confessional at St. Francis’s, right outside St. Francis’s, Cas’s office, the pews of the church . . .

Each time, they told him it would be the last. Each time, it was a lie. 

Dean didn’t understand how he managed to live through each murderous situation. He swore he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Can we stop?” Dean beseeched once. “Please?” 

Naomi smoothed his hair. “No, Dameal. Not until you do it right.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” 

“You have to be a good boy, Dameal. No cursing. And no emotion.”

“No emotion?” Dean echoed. 

“No emotion. You must put an end to Castiel without showing any emotion.”

This was news to him. “How the fuck do you expect me to do that?” 

“Figure it out.”

Thereafter, Dean attempted to steel himself, but that only made him weep more. 

“Please, can’t it be enough?” Dean pleaded after killing Cas what he estimated had been ten more times.

“You haven’t fulfilled the terms,” Naomi replied. 

Despite his attempt to hold them in, Dean burst into hysterical sobs. “Please. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Oh, poor baby,” she mocked as she grasped a swath of hair and yanked his head back. She slapped him, the blow ringing in his head. “Snap out of it! You’ll do it until we say it’s enough!” 

Dean retreated to somewhere in the back of his mind and shifted control to another part of himself. It made things easier.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Shiphrah continued to talk to Castiel every day. He didn’t understand why, though at one point she mentioned something about their conversations staving off boredom. He supposed that was as good of a reason as any.

They exchanged stories, Castiel revealing bits of his life with the Brethren, she discussing bits of hers. The Brethren had reproached Shiphrah her entire life, it seemed. They said she asked too many questions. He smiled a little at that. He hadn’t realized it until Balthazar had pointed it out, but she was correct: the Brethren didn’t tolerate many questions. Often, instead of answering the question, they’d punish the asker for “impertinence” or “heresy.” Naarah befriended Shiphrah when she was ten, eager to bring her firmly into the fold. She’d listened to Shiphrah’s objections and steered her right. Any time Shiphrah had been on the verge of becoming disillusioned, Naarah had pulled her back. Until lately, when Naarah had told her she was too old to still be so uncertain and insisted Shiphrah would “see the light” if she really wanted to. But she hadn’t, and she’d wanted to, or so she’d thought. Then she had an epiphany: she hated it here. Everything was so rigidly structured, and she was treated harshly merely because she had questions and doubts. She’d spent a lot of time wondering what was wrong with her, but eventually she concluded she didn’t care. She just didn’t belong here. 

Castiel told her about damning Balthazar, something he’d only ever shared with Dean, and that had been by accident. Later, he wondered why he had talked about it with Shiphrah; then he understood—it was because she could relate. With her doubts, she was like Balthazar, and with her questions, she was like Castiel. The story might help her feel less alone.

“I could let you go, you know,” she observed one day as she flourished the key. “I have this.” Castiel considered her words for a minute then shook his head. She frowned. “Why not?”

“I don’t want you to get into trouble,” he explained. 

“I don’t care.”

Castiel was touched. Even with all she knew about him, she wished to facilitate his escape. He shook his head again. She probably had many scars, and he didn’t want to be the cause for more of them. 

“We could pretend like you overpowered me,” she insisted. “When I brought you your food.”

“You would still get in trouble.” 

She smiled ruefully. “But not as much.” She paused. “Or better yet, you could take me with you.” Her voice, though small, contained a smidgeon of hope.

Now there was a proposition. She probably would be better off away from the Brethren. But—“No. I can’t leave here without Dean.” 

“So bring him.”

“I wish it were that easy,” he sighed. “They have him—” He stopped abruptly, unsure how much he should reveal about Dean’s situation. The horror of what they were doing . . . sure, she disliked the Brethren, but even that cruelty she would find hard to imagine. She had to live with these people, and he didn’t want to frighten her. “—imprisoned in another building,” he finished. “With several guards. I could never take them on by myself.” 

She tilted her head up and studied him. “What is he to you? This Dean?”

He chose to speak the truth. “I am in love with him.” After a brief silence, he added, “Does that disgust you?” 

A blush suffused her cheeks. “Maybe a little,” she admitted. She chewed her lip before continuing. “But if you think about it . . . why should it? What makes it so much different than heterosexuality?” She cast her eyes to the ground and muttered, “Other than the obvious parts about human anatomy . . .”

Castiel grinned. He liked her, he decided. He hoped she would be all right, that she wouldn’t meet the same end as either him or Balthazar. 

xxxxxxxxxx

In order to travel to Angel Falls, Sam took a few more days off work. He told Jess he’d found a lead on Dean’s whereabouts and planned to follow up on it. 

Jess crossed her arms and leaned back against the pantry. “Why don’t you tell the cops about it?”

“Maybe it’s nothing,” Sam speculated. “And besides, I’m not interested in turning Dean in. Not yet. I want to talk to him first.” 

She considered Sam’s words for a few minutes then nodded. Perhaps she thought he’d been distant lately because he’d been preoccupied with Dean. That notion filled Sam with guilt, but he was loath to tell the truth when he planned to go on another journey.

“I want to come with you,” Jess asserted. 

Sam shook his head. “No. This is something I want to do alone. It—it makes it easier.” The last sentence came out in a whisper.

Jess’s reluctance was palpable, but she nodded nevertheless. “Okay. Fine.” She paused then added, “But stay in touch.” Sam nodded. 

A couple of days later, Sam hit the highway once again. He spent the night at a motel a little past the halfway point then resumed his drive, arriving at Angel Falls in the afternoon. He stopped at the gas station and waited for an attendant.

“It’s you!” Ion exclaimed as he proffered a hand. Sam accepted, and when he released his grip, Ion said, “I knew you’d be back.” 

“Really?” Sam responded as Ion lifted the pump.

“Yeah. I don’t know. It was just a feeling I had.” He shrugged. “This is a different car than you had last time, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Sam acknowledged. “That was a rental.”

Ion lapsed into silence as he filled the gas tank. When Ion was finished, Sam strolled into the store and paid. When he returned, that guy from the restaurant, Inias, had joined Ion. 

“So you’ve come again,” Inias observed.

“Yeah.” Sam turned to Ion. “That murderer you were looking for—did you ever find him?” 

“We sure did!” Ion answered with a smile. 

So. That meant Novak was here. And if Novak was here, he could ask him about Dean. But would they let him waltz into their jail to interrogate Novak? He didn’t think so. Besides, he felt reluctant to disclose his connection with Novak, to explain the predicament about Dean. Something about these people—they were a cult, as Anna had confirmed; who knew what sinister agenda they had?

“I read your brochure,” he told Inias. “About the Angelic Brethren. Very interesting. Could I have a look around?” 

“I’m afraid not,” Inias replied. “Only members of the Brethren are allowed in.” Sam frowned. “But. If you’re interested, we can give you a trial run of membership, as it were. Then you can make an educated decision about whether you would like to join us.” Inias’s eyes narrowed. “That is what you’re interested in, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam muttered. 

“Great! You should meet our leader. Follow me.”

Sam trailed behind Inias, and soon they arrived at a wooden building located in what seemed to be the center of town. Inside, Inias showed him into a room then shut the door behind him. The room’s walls were devoid of decoration, and the only furniture consisted of a desk and three chairs, one behind the desk and two in front of it. 

A bald man occupied the chair behind the desk, his hands clasped in front of him. “Sit down. Please,” he urged. Sam followed suit, and the man continued, “You’re interested in joining the Brethren, eh?”

“Yeah,” Sam answered. A coldness seized his heart. He didn’t know why; there was just something not quite right about this man. 

“I’ve been expecting you. I received Revelation about it.” Sam stared at him blankly. “I talk to God, you see,” the man explained.

“Ah.” Wow, these people really were nuts. Sam felt a foreboding. 

“Zachariah Adler.” The man held out a hand, and Sam shook it. “What’s your name?” Zachariah asked after he released Sam’s hand.

“Sam . . . Sam Wesson.” A pseudonym would work best, he decided, since he didn’t trust these people. He smiled at a distant memory. As children, Sam and Dean had pretended to be lawmen and outlaws in the Wild West. They had used the last names Smith and Wesson because it was the name of a gun manufacturer, like Winchester. It had been Dean’s idea. Sam had forgotten how clever his brother could be. 

“Samuel!” Zachariah exclaimed. “That’s a good name. Biblical.” He pulled out a notebook and wrote the name “Samuel Wesson” on a fresh page.

“It’s Sam,” he corrected. 

Zachariah laid his pen down and offered Sam an indulgent grin. “Here, it’s Samuel. It’s the more pious alternative.”

Fine. If Zachariah insisted he go by Samuel, then so be it. “Okay. So, um. Well. How long does the trial membership last?”

“You have a year to decide.” Damn, a year? He didn’t have to stay here that long, he told himself. “We don’t want you to be hasty.” 

“I see.”

“If you wait outside, I’ll get someone to give you a tour of our town.” 

“Sure. That’d be great.”

Outside, he leaned against the wall and waited for ten minutes until a girl who couldn’t be more than sixteen approached him. “Are you Samuel?” she asked. 

“Yes.”

“I’m Naarah,” she supplied. “And I’ll be your guide.” 

He paid close attention to every location she pointed out, and he learned where he would stay and where he would eat. Each person or couple (if they were sixteen or older) had their own two-room cabin (with a bathroom and a bedroom), and everyone ate together in the cafeteria. There were several dormitories for children under sixteen. Two stone buildings served as the school and the church, respectively. Then there was the administrative building, where he’d met Zachariah, plus the businesses on the outskirts of town. A courthouse that resembled a cottage. Naarah explained that everyone was given a job here depending on their skills. He mentioned he was a lawyer, and she laughed, claiming there was no need for lawyers in Angel Falls. They discussed his hobbies, and she hypothesized that he might be able to help Metatron in the library. (Metatron? What was he, a Transformer?)

Naarah didn’t show him the jail, however, and he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask about it. He also noticed she said nothing about a couple of buildings on the edge of town farthest from the highway. 

Once the Brethren left him on his own, he would explore the town more thoroughly.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean had taken Cas back to his secret cove in the forest, the one with the abandoned cabin. They’d packed dinner and eaten it in the house despite Cas’s objections to the unsanitariness of the arrangement. Now they lay together in the back of the Impala, still fully clothed, Cas nuzzling his neck as Dean held him close.

He smiled, feeling at peace. 

But a loud noise jerked him out of the illusion, and he bolted upright, letting Cas go. Cas’s upper body fell to the floorboard, his head hitting the ground. “Ow,” Cas panted as he rubbed his head. “What did you do that for?”

Naomi stared back at Dean from the front seat, brandishing that ever-present sword. “You know what you must do,” she said. 

Yeah, he did. This was another of those damn tricks, but this one hit him harder than the others. He tried to do that thing where he disappeared somewhere into his mind, but it wouldn’t work this time.

“Dean?” Cas ventured as he clambered back onto the seat. 

“You don’t see her?” Dean whispered, his gaze locked on Naomi.

“See who?” 

“You didn’t correct him,” Naomi pointed out.

He opened his mouth, planning to tell Cas to call him “Dameal,” but no sound would come out. 

“Remember what’s at stake,” Naomi reminded him. She held out the sword, and he grasped it.

“I can’t,” Dean wheezed. This was more overwhelming than the other incidents had been. Why? He scratched his chin as he pondered the question. 

Then the reason hit him: it was because he was in the Impala, which he regarded as his second self. He recalled the last time he’d seen the Impala; he and Cas had been in Idaho. He hoped she was okay. Tears spilled from his eyes.

“You can do it,” Naomi supplied. “You’ve done it dozens of times before.” 

“No, I can’t,” Dean concluded. “Not this time.” He struggled to breathe.

Why should he care about breathing? What if he turned the sword on himself? He fingered the hilt as he considered the option. 

Naomi snatched the weapon from him. “And you were doing so well, Dameal,” she sighed.

They were back in the room now, thank God. Naomi frowned down at him and called, “Inias!” Inias stepped forward. “Dose him,” she commanded. “Triple.” 

The son of a bitch jabbed that needle into his temple, not once, but twice, three times. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he moaned, his head throbbing with a searing pain. Inias returned to his spot near the door, and Naomi loomed above him again.

“Time for your punishment,” she announced as she began slicing his cheek. 

After his face had been shredded to ribbons, hell resumed its course. He killed Cas countless more times. Mercifully, they never revisited the Impala, and Dean was able to remove most of himself from his consciousness.

xxxxxxxxxx 

“There’s a new person among us,” Shiphrah informed Castiel after he finished his breakfast, which had consisted of the usual toast, cheese, and water. 

“Really?” he replied. “Who is he? Or she?”

“He,” Shiphrah said as she leaned back in the chair. “I don’t know. I haven’t met him. He arrived yesterday.” 

“Oh.” He hoped whoever he was would have the good sense not to stay. Sweat dripped down his brow, past his nose, and onto his chin. It was unseasonably hot, and Castiel unconsciously rolled his sleeves up in a feeble attempt to cool off and scratched an itch on the inside of his forearm.

“What’s that?” Shiphrah asked.

“What?” Castiel murmured as he continued to scratch. 

She pointed at the expanse of skin his fingers were running over. “Those scars. On your arms.”

Castiel stilled his motion. How could he have been so careless? He’d completely forgotten about the scars. Samandriel had removed the bandages a little while ago, and Castiel hadn’t thought of the wounds ever since. 

He would’ve never wanted Shiphrah to see them. What should he tell her? Not the truth, not that he’d attempted to kill himself in an effort to prevent them from doing whatever it was they were doing to Dean, whatever it was that made him believe he was bleeding when he wasn’t, whatever it was that was supposed to turn him into Dameal.

He shuddered, tears prickling his eyes. 

Shiphrah wrinkled her forehead. “Castiel? What’s wrong?”

He dabbed at his eyes with the pads of his fingers. “Nothing. Sorry. I was just thinking about Dean.” 

“You care about him a lot, don’t you?” she commiserated.

“I would do anything for him,” Castiel affirmed. 

She eyed his arms again. “Including that?”

“Yes.” The word slipped out of his mouth before he could prevent it. 

“What’s the story behind it?”

“It’s complicated.” 

“It has something to do with why you’re here, doesn’t it?” Castiel remained silent. “I’m not stupid, y’know,” she groused as she crossed her arms. “You’re hiding something from me.”

“My life is none of your business,” Castiel snapped. 

“I told you so much about myself.” Her voice wavered as if she were on the verge of crying. “Why can’t you trust me?”

“You shouldn’t have,” Castiel declared. “I’m a murderer, remember?” 

‘I thought,” she sobbed. “I thought you were my friend.”

Castiel’s throat tightened. How awful must her life be if she wanted _him_ as a friend? It would be best to disabuse her of the notion now. If she continued to view him as a “friend,” it would hurt her in the long run. The Brethren might even damn her. 

“No,” Castiel rasped.

She turned to face the wall, her breathing ragged as she wept.

xxxxxxxxxxx 

After speaking with Metatron about working in the library, Sam traced a path around the perimeter of the town. He planned to examine the buildings Naarah hadn’t pointed out to him yesterday. First, he ventured toward a wooden establishment that appeared to be a lodge. A man stood beside the front door. Sam wasn’t sure if he was permitted to go inside or not. Probably not, he concluded, if they hadn’t let him see it yesterday. Hoping to find another entrance, Sam headed for the back of the building. Eventually, he found a side door, but just as he touched the knob, someone spoke behind him. 

“What are you doing?”

Sam spun around to face the source of the voice. A young man, no doubt the same one from the front door. How old was he? He looked barely out of his teens, but something in his voice sounded older. 

“Um. Just curious,” Sam answered.

“You’re the new one, aren’t you?” Sam nodded. “Didn’t Naarah show you around yesterday?” 

“Yeah. But there were some places—”

“That’s because you’re not allowed there.” He patted the wall. “Those locations are open to only a select few.” 

“Oh. Um. Sorry.”

The man relaxed his stance. “It’s all right. You didn’t know.” He smiled and extended a hand. “Samandriel.” 

“I’m Sam—uel.” Sam shook Samandriel’s hand and cursed himself for almost forgetting to add the last syllable.

“Welcome. I hope you’ll like it here.” 

“Thanks.”

Sam traipsed to another area and spotted a barn. Were there horses and cattle inside? He made his way to it and nearly bumped into a man carrying a tray containing two sandwiches and two glasses of water. 

“Watch it!” the man hissed as he balanced the tray. “What’re you doing here?”

“Just looking around,” Sam replied. 

“You’re not supposed to be over here.” He paused. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Samuel.” 

“Oh. The new man. I’m Esper. An Elder. And you best do as I say.” Esper continued on into the barn.

What the hell was an Elder? It must be part of a hierarchy. Why hadn’t someone explained that stuff to him? 

One thing was for sure, though. Animals didn’t eat sandwiches or drink from glasses. There were people in the barn. Who? Tomorrow, he would sneak back over here to find out.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Shiphrah still wasn’t speaking to Castiel. This morning, she’d silently handed him his breakfast then slumped into the chair. He missed their conversations; they had kept him occupied, and he did genuinely like her. But protecting her was more important than entertaining himself.

Sometime in the afternoon, he heard the faint sound of approaching footsteps. Who could that be? It wasn’t mealtime. Castiel grew nervous and glanced at Shiphrah. “Someone’s coming,” he observed. She nodded wordlessly, her demeanor rigid. 

When the man appeared, Castiel recognized him from a photograph in which he’d posed next to Dean.

“Sam Winchester?” he marveled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta end with a cliffhanger sometime. I'm excited about Sam and Castiel finally meeting in the next chapter. Also, we should be done with the torture now. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Without you lovely readers, this fic wouldn't exist. I appreciate the feedback I've gotten so far!


	10. Salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no Dean POV in this chapter, but it'll be back next time.

“Sam Winchester?” the blue-eyed man in the stall hazarded as he stood up. 

So this was Father Castiel Novak, Sam reflected as he edged closer to the man. Sam almost gagged on the smell, wincing as he held his breath. A teenage girl sitting on a chair studied him, curiosity covering her features.

What was going on? Why was Novak locked in a barn, and what was this girl doing here? 

“What is this place?” Sam asked.

“The jail,” Novak replied. Huh? Why was the jail a barn? 

Sam ignored the girl for the moment and faced Novak, his eyes grazing over a gold chain around the priest’s neck. With suspicion, Sam pointed at the necklace and inquired, “What’s that?” Novak fished it out from underneath his red flannel shirt, and a familiar cross glittered against his palm. “That’s my mom’s!” Sam exclaimed with indignation, his hands fisting at his sides.

Novak closed his hand around the cross. “I know,” he said softly. 

How dare this man wear his mom’s necklace! Who did he think he was?! What gave him the _right_ to wear it? “Where did you get that?! Give it to me!”

Novak tucked the necklace back underneath his shirt. “No,” he replied, his eyes growing sorrowful. “Dean gave it to me.” 

“Dean? Do you know where he is? Is he here?”

“Yes,” he exhaled. 

Confirmation. Dean was here. Thank God. He was safe. “Where?” When Novak didn’t answer, Sam, shouted, “Where is he, Novak?!”

“Please, call me Castiel,” the priest responded in a low tone. 

“I’ll call you whatever I damn well please! Now tell me, where’s Dean?!”

Novak eyed the girl. “It’s complicated. I can’t—” his voice broke. “Not in front of her.” 

Sam turned back to the teenager, who was gazing at them both. “Can you leave us alone for a few minutes?” he asked her.

“No,” she answered. “I’m staying.” 

“Castiel and I need to talk—” Wait, had he just referred to the guy as Castiel? After insisting to the priest he wouldn’t?

“You can do it in front of me,” she interrupted. 

“Shiphrah—” Novak began.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “No,” she repeated. “I want to hear it.” 

“Very well. Sam, you may continue.”

“But—” How dare the man call him Sam! What gave him the right to speak with such familiarity to him? 

“She can listen. She won’t tell anyone.” He looked at her. “That is correct?”

“I promise to keep it secret,” Shiphrah confirmed. 

“Fine. Well, then. Castiel. Where’s Dean?” Sam told himself using the priest’s first name meant nothing, that he was merely indulging Novak.

“In the old lodge.” Castiel wiped his eyes, and only then did Sam notice tears had gathered in them. “What they’re doing to him . . . ” he whispered, his expression pleading. “You’ve got to save him, Sam.” 

A chill ran through Sam’s body. “What do you mean? What _are_ they doing to him?”

“So much,” he breathed. Tears drifted down his cheeks, but his voice remained firm. “I don’t know what exactly. But . . . they let me see him only once, but whatever they’re doing . . . they’re messing with his mind, Sam.” With the last sentence, Castiel’s voice became a whimper. “He . . . he thought he was bleeding, but he wasn’t. And I could tell he wasn’t all there. That was some time ago.” He swallowed. “There was a puncture wound on his head. I think . . . I think they’ve been injecting him with a substance. I don’t know what it is, but it’s how they’re manipulating his mind. I’m sure of it.” 

Sam’s muscles tensed, and he chewed the insides of his cheeks. Was the priest fucking with him? “Why would they do that?” he hissed.

Castiel shook his head. “It’s Zachariah. He’s sadistic.” 

Sam had _known_ there was something off about Zachariah. Still, Novak was to blame. If Dean had never involved himself with Novak, he wouldn’t be here now. “This is your fault,” he seethed.

“Yes,” the priest breathed. 

“What the fuck?!” Sam screamed, restraining incipient sobs. He recalled what Anna had told him, that the Angelic Brethren viewed Castiel as a heretic. “Are you guys stupid?! Why would you even drive through here?”

“We did _not_ drive through here,” Castiel snapped. “We stayed far away, but they found us anyway. Because Zachariah wants to damn me.” 

Anna had explained that term to Sam. _Damn him_. Zachariah wished to kill Castiel. If so, why hadn’t he done it yet? But he couldn’t ask Castiel that; it would be too insensitive. Instead, he mentioned another topic he had to know about. “What about my dad? Did you . . . ?” Sam was unable to complete the question.

Still, Castiel seemed to understand what he was asking. “Yes. It was me. I killed him.” 

Sam shivered. So, this priest was no better than the other two at St. Francis’s, Raphael Ingalls and Michael Archer. One had molested children, and one had covered up for the other. And this one was a murderer.

Sam was afraid to continue his questioning, but he must know. “And Dean?” 

“Dean did nothing wrong,” Castiel said sharply.

Wrath overtook him. “It was all you?” 

“Yes, it was all me,” Castiel retorted. He laughed, the sound hysterical and dark. “Everything is my fault!”

“I hate you,” Sam whispered, the vehemence of his emotion startling him. 

“You should. I ruined Dean’s life.” Novak lowered his voice. “Just rescue him,” the priest begged. “Please?”

Sam nodded. “I’ll think of something,” he muttered, admiring the obvious strength of the man’s love for Dean even as he hated him for everything else. 

“I have only one request,” Castiel added, his eyes darting to the girl Sam had almost forgotten was there. “Take her with you.” He addressed her. “You do want to leave, don’t you?” She nodded, her eyes moist.

“Sure,” Sam murmured. He didn’t have a problem with that. A psychopath ran this town, and if someone wanted to escape, he’d gladly help them. “I’ll take her with me once I get Dean.” 

“Are you going to take Castiel, too?” Shiphrah inquired.

“No.” He couldn’t care less about the priest. After all, he was responsible for everything. He’d admitted as much. 

“Please, can’t you take him, too?”

“Shiphrah—” Novak interrupted. 

“I won’t leave without Castiel,” she proclaimed.

“Shiphrah, no, this is your chance—” 

She turned to the priest. “I’m not leaving without you.”

Why was she so attached to Castiel? Is that why she was here in the barn? Esper had said only authorized people were allowed to come here.—What made her so special? 

“Sam, don’t leave without her, please,” Castiel beseeched. “I think something might happen to her if she stays.”

“I’m not leaving without him,” Shiphrah repeated. 

Sam sighed. “ _Fine_. I’ll take Castiel.” The girl offered him a grateful smile, and Sam tried to ignore his misgivings for the time being. Suddenly, a hand grasped his shirtsleeve and yanked him toward the slats of the stall door.

He rolled his eyes toward Castiel, who maintained a firm grip on Sam as he brought his lips to Sam’s ear and whispered, “I’ll turn myself in. I promise.”

Sam didn’t know why, but he believed Castiel. “You better,” he whispered back. 

Castiel released him and spoke louder. “They’ll be bringing us dinner soon,” he announced. “You should leave us before then. If you get caught, they’ll punish you; then you won’t be able to save Dean.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Sam replied. “I’ll come back tomorrow.” 

“Yes.”

“See you guys then,” Sam said before leaving the barn. He had a lot to process. 

xxxxxxxxxxx

“Is that true?” Shiphrah asked after Sam exited the barn. 

“What?” Castiel didn’t understand why Shiphrah had insisted Sam bring him along when he left Angel Falls with Dean. Wasn’t she mad at him? Plus, there was everything she’d just heard him explaining to Sam . . . she must know he was a monster.

“All of it.” 

“I told you I killed Dean’s father.”

“Not that.” She looked wary of him, and a little frightened. Had she not believed him before? If so, what had changed her mind? At least her attitude toward him was more sensible now. “What you said about Dean. About what the Brethren are doing to him.” 

“Yes.”

“Why did you lie to me?” 

“I didn’t. I just . . . I didn’t want you to know.” Softly, he added, “It’s too horrible.”

“Why would they do that?” 

“Zachariah told me he wanted Dameal to damn me.”

She furrowed her brow. “Who’s Dameal?” 

“Dean.”

“What? I don’t understand.” 

“They want to turn Dean into Dameal then have him damn me. That’s what Zachariah said. That’s why they locked me up in here. It’s for until then.”

“That’s awful,” Shiphrah whispered, biting her knuckles. “So. That man. Sam. He’s Dean’s brother?” 

“Yes.” After his shock at seeing Sam, Castiel had focused on helping Dean. That was why Sam was here, of course. Castiel had quickly put all the pieces together. No doubt Sam was the Brethren’s new recruit, too. He must’ve used an alias; otherwise, the Brethren wouldn’t have let him into Angel Falls, or they would’ve imprisoned him. Whatever it took to prevent him from disrupting their plans.

When Sam had departed, the shock returned. How had Sam ended up here? From what Dean had said, for the past nine years he and Sam had communicated only via sporadic emails. Castiel had gotten the impression the brothers’ estrangement had been Sam’s doing. After all, Dean seemed to think Sam despised him. 

But that couldn’t be true, not if Sam had made the effort to track Dean to Angel Falls. How had he found out where Castiel and Dean were, anyway?

Quite the mystery. 

“What did you whisper to him?” Shiphrah asked, pulling Castiel out of his reverie.

“What?” he muttered. 

“You whispered something to him. What was it?”

He didn’t know how Shiphrah felt about him turning himself in, so he couldn’t tell the truth. Instead, he said, “It was something personal. About Dean.” 

“Oh.” She must’ve believed him because she didn’t pursue the subject further. Castiel thanked the Lord for small mercies.

In any event, Sam definitely wanted Castiel to turn himself in. Castiel didn’t blame Sam. He’d allowed Dean to distract him from the right course of action. If he’d held to his convictions, Dean never would’ve fallen into the Brethren’s clutches. 

He glanced at Shiphrah, who was biting her fingernails. Charley Reed’s death flashed before his eyes, and he decided to inform her about it before he lost his nerve. She deserved to know. “Do you want me to tell you how I really knew who you were?” Her eyes widened, and she nodded as she lowered her hand to her side. “It is not a pleasant story.”

“I didn’t expect it to be,” she commented. 

He took a deep breath then continued. “Before I left, when I was part of the Next Level, I saw people do things. I—I helped.” He paused, forcing himself to maintain his composure. “The members of the Next Level and the Elders—everyone else has no idea of the terrible things they do. They steal. They kidnap children and raise them as their own. You were one of them. Naarah, too.

“I was involved. I didn’t want to be, but I was afraid of what they would do to me otherwise.” Why couldn’t he keep his voice from quivering? 

“Oh.” She looked too stunned to articulate any other response.

“But that’s not all,” Castiel added, rushing the words before he could change his mind. “They killed your real father.” 

“What?” she whispered, her mouth hanging open.

“They killed him, and it was my fault,” Castiel choked out, his mind feeling as if he were still there, Uriel holding his head so he couldn’t turn away, telling him this was his doing, that this was what happened when Castiel refused to obey orders. Uriel had wanted him to take Charley Reed’s daughter, but he didn’t, so they took her anyway and beat the man to death, made him suffer. Because of Castiel. “His name was Charley Reed,” Castiel said with reverence. “His wife had just died, and he was moving to be near his sister. He stopped to get gas, and then . . . Uriel wanted me to take you, and I said no, and then they killed him because I said no.” Tears fell from his eyes, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop weeping. Shiphrah gaped at him, and Castiel whispered, “Your name was Cheyenne. He loved you very much.” 

Tears glistened in her eyes, streamed down her cheeks, but she remained silent. After a few minutes, she swiped at her face. Castiel said, “I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t change anything, but truly I am.”

She nodded and cleared her throat. “Who named me Shiphrah?” 

“Uriel. He said he received Revelation about it. The whole thing.”

“What about Naarah? Did her parents . . . ?” 

“No. Her parents joined the Brethren then decided they didn’t want to stay. They’d signed a contract agreeing to give their daughter to the Brethren if they left. They tried to take her with them, but Uriel sent me to retrieve her. So I did.”

“Oh.” She paused. “I should tell Naarah.” 

“No.”

She frowned. “Why not? She has a right to know.” 

“Perhaps. But you said she was devout, did you not?” Shiphrah nodded. “I do not think she would react the way you expect. She might report you. She might not believe you, and even if she does, if she’s devoted enough, she could think it was right for the Brethren to keep her.”

“No,” Shiphrah gasped. 

“The Brethren are good at instilling loyalty. That’s why the Elders and the Next Level are willing to do the things they do.” She appeared to be mulling over his words. He barked a mirthless laugh. “Hell, maybe I _am_ lying. Why should you believe me? I’m a criminal.”

“No, you’re telling the truth. You’re too emotional not to be.” 

“Maybe I’m a good actor.”

“I wish you would stop that,” she grumbled. “Why are you so determined to turn me against you?” 

“I just don’t comprehend it,” Castiel sighed. “Why you would trust what I say. Why you wouldn’t want Sam to leave without me. Especially with all you know about me.”

“Maybe it’s because you don’t try to hide it. Because you’re honest about everything.” 

“Hmm.” Castiel supposed her explanation made sense.

“I’m going to tell Naarah—” she began, but she ceased speaking when Castiel put a finger to his lips. Someone was coming. With dinner, no doubt. Soon, Hester materialized, and she distributed sandwiches and water glasses with a sneer.

xxxxxxxxxxx 

Sam spent the first part of the day under Metatron’s tutelage, the librarian’s watchful eye on him as he shelved books and completed other mundane duties. He seemed to be constantly hovering nearby, and it made Sam uncomfortable. He was grateful when his shift was over.

It was the middle of the afternoon, which gave him plenty of time to discuss rescue plans with Castiel. 

When he entered the structure, Shiphrah and Castiel both turned to look at him.

“Good afternoon, Sam,” Castiel rasped. 

Sam didn’t reply, too angry at the priest to be drawn in by his politeness. He sat down on the ground between Shiphrah and Castiel, his back to the barn’s door. He cast glances at the other two before clearing his throat. Bandages covered the girl’s wrists. He could’ve sworn they weren’t there yesterday, but he didn’t know whether it was okay for him to ask about it. “So. Where do we begin?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel answered. “But we need to do it as soon as possible.” 

“As soon as possible . . . ” Sam muttered to himself. Yes, he had to agree. If what Castiel had told him yesterday was true, Dean had already been here for too long. _This is all Novak’s fault_ , he thought, and he wanted to throw a few punches at the priest. But no. He had to put his resentment aside for the time being; that was the only way he could save Dean. “Would tonight be too soon?”

“Tonight?” Shiphrah echoed. 

“Tonight,” Castiel repeated. “Yes, I would agree to that.”

Sam waited for the girl’s opinion, which he cared more about than Castiel’s. 

“Okay,” she breathed finally. “Tonight.”

“All right. That’s settled,” Sam concluded. “Now for an actual plan. We’ll meet here first. Then we’ve gotta get Castiel out of there.” He pointed at the stall. 

“Shiphrah,” Castiel said, “could you bring the key? Or do they give it to you every morning?”

“No. They let me keep it.” She pulled a key from out of a pocket on her dress and held it up. Sam grinned. 

“Perfect,” Sam said. “So, how about we meet here around midnight?” Shiphrah and Castiel nodded. “Castiel, do you think Shiphrah and I will run into anyone on our way over?”

“No,” Castiel answered. “People are supposed to be in their homes by ten o’clock, and everyone tends to follow the rules.” 

“Great. Okay.” This was going to be easier than he’d imagined. “We’ll go to my car and drive over to the lodge. We’ll get Dean; then we’ll leave.”

Castiel snorted. “It’s not going to be that simple.” 

Sam’s spirits sank. “What do you mean?”

“For one thing, they’re going to be guarding Dean at all times. And they’re bound to hear your car and investigate.” 

“Okay. So I’ll park a little bit away.”

“We might have to carry Dean. Can we do that while we’re being chased?” 

“Hmm.” Sam frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. _They might have to carry Dean_ —the implications of the statement brought tears to his eyes, but he quickly suppressed them. “How many people do you think would be guarding Dean?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted. “When I was there, five people were inside. They’ll all have angel-blades.” 

“What the hell is an angel-blade?”

“A sword, essentially.” 

“Oh. They’ve also got someone by the front door.”

Castiel nodded. “We can sneak in through one of the side doors. Or if we must, I’m sure we can take on one person, even if they have an angel-blade. But once we’re inside, I don’t know.” 

“Yeah.” Sam pondered the problem.

“If you could get some of their angel-blades, it would be a fairer fight,” Shiphrah pointed out. 

“Yes. One of us could tackle the guard by the front door and take their angel-blade then use it. The element of surprise could help us disarm at least one other person when we get inside,” Castiel theorized. He glanced at Sam. “Do you know how to use a sword?”

“Yeah, I do.” He could operate almost any weapon. For the second time in a month, Sam thanked his dad for something he’d taught him. 

“Then we might be two against five.—”

“ _Three_ ,” Shiphrah corrected. 

“Three,” Castiel amended. Sam understood Castiel’s reluctance to include Shiphrah in the breakout portion of the plan. He wanted to keep her safe as well, but if she insisted on helping, there was nothing either of them could do about it. “We’ll just have to somehow manage to overpower them and get Dean.” He sighed. “This is a foolhardy plan,” he lamented.

“It’s not even a plan, really,” Sam observed. “But it’s all we’ve got, and it’s worth a shot.” 

“Yes.”

With surprise, Sam realized he was glad he’d agreed to take Castiel with him when he left Angel Falls. The odds of success were already low enough even with Castiel’s participation. Plus, he did care a lot about Dean, which meant he wouldn’t give up easily. Sam studied his countenance and noted the determination etched into every line. 

xxxxxxxxxxx

Shiphrah arrived first, a flashlight in one hand. She immediately unlocked the stall, and Castiel stepped out of it. 

“How does it feel to be free?” she gushed.

He smiled. “Great.” Now they must wait for Sam. He flicked his eyes to Shiphrah’s palms and groaned inwardly, remembering the conversation they’d had about the subject this morning. She had told Naarah about the kidnappings, and of course Naarah had reacted just as Castiel had hypothesized she would. The prescribed punishment had been ten blows to the palm, administered with a switch by none other than Zachariah, who’d thereafter warned her she was on the path to damnation if she continued to listen to Castiel. 

He hoped they would be successful tonight, but he knew that chances were slim. Still, he silently prayed about it. Sam’s arrival had shown him anything was possible.

His thoughts were disrupted when Sam popped into the barn, wielding his cell phone as a flashlight. 

“Are we ready?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” Castiel and Shiphrah replied in unison. 

“Well, here goes nothing,” Sam muttered.

Castiel and Shiphrah followed Sam to the compound’s large parking lot near the central building. After a long walk, they stopped next to a sedan, Castiel briefly glimpsing California license plates. Sam unlocked the doors, and he and Shiphrah slid into the back while Sam started the car. Sam drove toward the lodge and parked the car in the very back of its parking lot, which Castiel had estimated would be out of hearing range for anyone inside. They strolled toward the lodge, Castiel taking ragged breaths and attempting to calm his nerves. No one was at the front door when they reached it, but then a startled voice behind them uttered, “Castiel?” 

All three of them whirled around, and Sam raised a fist, but before he could land a blow, Castiel grabbed him and murmured, “No!” The man who’d spoken was Samandriel, and Castiel didn’t want to hurt him. Besides, he believed there was no need for doing so. Samandriel had been sympathetic the entire time Castiel had been here.

“Let me go!” Sam grumbled as he wrenched himself out of Castiel’s grasp. 

“I can talk to him,” Castiel explained.

“What is this about, Castiel?” Samandriel inquired. “How did you get out?” 

“Please, let us get Dean,” Castiel begged. “You know they’re doing something to him, even if you don’t know what it is.”

“I shouldn’t allow it, Castiel.” 

“Please?” he pleaded. “You said—” Castiel swallowed. “—you said you wanted to help me. Please, will you help me now?”

Samandriel remained quiet for a few minutes. Finally, he nodded, and Castiel offered him a grateful smile. “Thank you,” Castiel whispered. “How many of them are in there?” 

“Naomi, Zachariah, Ion, and Hester,” Samandriel supplied.

“Hmm.” A formidable quartet. 

Samandriel drew his angel-blade and handed it to Castiel. “Here. Take this.”

Castiel stared at it and asked, “Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” He frowned. “But don’t take Shiphrah in there. I’ll watch her.”

“No—” Shiphrah interjected. 

“Your wounds are too raw,” Samandriel opined with a pointed look at her palms.

“But—” 

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Sam chimed in. “My car’s in the back of the lot. You can wait by it.”

Samandriel put an arm around Shiphrah’s shoulders and was about to turn around when Castiel noticed something. “What’s that?” he asked. 

“What?” Samandriel responded.

Castiel snatched the flashlight from Shiphrah, who glared at him, and directed it at Samandriel’s ear. A trickle of blood dribbled from it, a thin stream running down his earlobe and neck. “Your ear is bleeding.” 

“Oh. That.” Samandriel wiped the blood away, but a new droplet formed. “It’s nothing. Now go.”

“But—” 

“C’mon,” Sam urged as he dragged Castiel away. When Sam and Castiel barged into the building, the four Elders gazed back at them with shocked expressions.

“Samuel? Castiel?” Ion cried. 

They blocked his view of Dean. He held the angel-blade aloft and attempted to draw on his rage to carry him.

“Where is Samandriel?” Hester asked. 

He approached Hester and held the angel-blade to her neck. “Let Dean go,” he commanded.

“Like we would do that,” Hester scoffed. Castiel felt an angel-blade press against the back of his neck. “Gotcha.” 

“Nope,” he heard Sam respond, followed by the metallic clang of an angel-blade hitting the floor. Keeping his angel-blade trained on Hester, he turned his head and noticed Sam pick up another angel-blade from its position next to an unconscious Ion.

Naomi charged Sam, and their angel-blades clashed. Zachariah joined the fray.  Castiel wondered whether he should help Sam out, but he seemed to be handling the duo expertly. With his angel-blade, Castiel pushed Hester toward the far side of the room until they were inches away from Dean, who was comatose and handcuffed to the chair. “Unlock them,” he ordered Hester. 

“I can’t. I don’t have the keys.”

“Sam?” Castiel called. 

“Kinda busy here,” Sam shouted as he ducked a swipe from Zachariah.

“Do either of them have keys?” Castiel barreled on. A second later, a set of keys flew toward Castiel, landing on the ground beside his feet. He bent down to retrieve them while keeping a watchful eye on Hester then hollered, “Thank you!” 

“’Welcome!” Sam bellowed back while parrying a strike from Naomi.

“Which key is it?” Castiel demanded of Hester. 

She pointed a shaky hand at a rusty key. “That one.”

He slotted the key into the handcuffs, and during the second he took his eyes off Hester, she struck a blow to his forehead. He grabbed her knees and pulled her down with him. He struggled with her as he unsnapped the handcuffs, and when he was finished, he stood up and banged her head against the wall, knocking her out. He turned back to Dean, and his mouth fell open. 

Dean looked much worse than he had when Castiel had last seen him. Red welts on his wrists marked where the handcuffs had been. Black circles under his eyes resembled bruises. No visible wounds except for the gash on his temple, but that appeared swollen.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered as tears fell from his eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“We’ve gotta go!” he heard Sam yell behind him, but he couldn’t move, his eyes absorbing every detail of Dean’s body. “Castiel!” Castiel stayed still. “They’re gonna wake up soon!” _Oh, Dean_. “Cas!”

The last syllable pierced through the veil, and he jerked his gaze toward Sam, who now had a hand on Dean’s arm. He helped Sam lift Dean, and they each threw an arm around their necks as they hobbled out of the lodge. Adrenaline provided fuel for Castiel as they stumbled toward the car. When they reached it, he and Sam laid Dean out on the backseat, and then Sam plopped into the driver’s seat. Castiel was about to urge Shiphrah to get in, but when his flashlight fell on her and Samandriel, he discovered blood was flowing from both of Samandriel’s ears, the consistency thick. Samandriel passed a book to Shiphrah and mumbled, “Let the world know.” He collapsed, his head striking the asphalt. 

“Samandriel!” Shiphrah screamed.

Castiel crouched down and placed an ear near Samandriel’s lips. Nothing. He felt for a pulse. Also nothing. “He’s dead,” Castiel exhaled as he stood up. “We should go.” 

“We can’t just leave him! Samandriel! Samandriel!” she shrieked.

Sam stuck his head through the driver’s window. “Are you guys gonna get in or what?” 

“Yes. Come on, Shiphrah. Let’s go.” He shoved her into the passenger’s side then crawled into the back and cradled Dean’s head in his lap, stroking his hair.

What had happened to Samandriel? How could he suddenly die like that? Castiel closed his eyes. 

 _Samandriel, I’m sorry_.

_You did the right thing. Thank you._

_I’m sorry._

He let go, his sobs mingling with Shiphrah’s.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I especially enjoyed writing this chapter. (Well, except for poor Samandriel.) I hope you liked reading it as much as I liked writing it. Thanks for stopping by!


	11. Brotherly Love

Sam slammed his foot on the gas pedal, intent on speeding out of Angel Falls. He tried to ignore the crying emanating from beside and behind him; he had to concentrate on getting the hell out of here. But tears almost blotted out his vision when he recalled his first glimpse of Dean in the lodge. Passed out, draped awkwardly in a metal chair. That tortured expression on his face.

Sam blinked the tears away. _Focus,_ he told himself. _Just get as far away as you can._  

“Sam,” Castiel called.

“Yeah?” Sam prompted without taking his eyes off the road. 

Castiel sounded somewhat timid. “Where are we going?”

“Home, of course.” 

“Your home? In California?”

“Uh-huh.” 

Sam had grown accustomed to the quiet when Castiel spoke again. “We need to go to Idaho. Sandpoint.”

“Why the hell should we do that?” Sam spluttered. Seriously, they did not need a detour right now. And why Idaho of all places? 

“That’s where we were when—when the Brethren found us.—”

“Then why the hell would we go there? It’s the first place they’d come lookin’ for us.” 

“Maybe not. Maybe they think we’re too smart for that.”

Sam snorted. “Apparently you’re not,” he mumbled. “Why do you wanna go there, anyway? To get your clothes? It’s not worth it, man.”

“No. Dean’s car.”

“Still not worth it, man.” 

“ _It’s worth it_ ,” Castiel growled, and Sam flinched at the intensity in his voice. It contained unmistakable authority, a stark contrast to the broken mess Sam had seen so far. “Dean needs that car like . . . well, that car _is_ Dean, in a way.”

So Dean was still in love with the damn Impala. If the strength of that love was even a tenth of what it’d once been, then Dean would be lost without his “baby.” Abandoning it would be like ripping out his spirit or something. After what Dean had been through, Sam couldn’t do that to him. “Fine,” he sighed before passing his phone to Shiphrah. “Can you program the GPS for Sandpoint?” he asked her. 

She accepted the phone as if it were a fragile object. “I don’t know how to use it,” she said.

Huh? Sam supposed he shouldn’t be too surprised. She’d lived her whole life in a cult, for God’s sake. He grabbed the phone and tossed it into the backseat. “You do it, Cas.”

“Yes, Sam,” Castiel answered.                                                                                      

While Castiel was setting their course for Sandpoint, Shiphrah shone her flashlight on the pages of a book. It looked like a journal of some kind. Samandriel’s?

Something had happened to Samandriel, but Sam didn’t know what it was. He hadn’t been paying much attention to anything else when he had slid into his car. Thinking about it gave him goosebumps, though. It couldn’t have been good. For a cult member, Samandriel had seemed pretty cool. Plus, he had helped them rescue Dean. Sam would be forever thankful for that. 

Silence descended once again. After he finished with the phone, Castiel handed it back to Sam, and Sam studied the route to Sandpoint, memorizing it while he kept an eye on the road. When he was done, he dropped the phone into one of the cup holders.

Ten minutes later, Shiphrah asked, “Who’s Dick Roman?” 

Seriously, who needed to ask that question? Dick Roman was friggin’ everywhere. “The politician?” Sam replied.

“Is that what he is?” 

“He was almost our President, for Christ’s sake.”

“Why do you ask, Shiphrah?” Castiel interupted gently. Sam realized he had sounded irked, and he chastised himself for it. The girl didn’t deserve his derision.

“Samandriel mentioned him in here,” Shiphrah explained. 

“He did? Is that the book he gave you?”

“Yes. It’s his journal.” 

What would Dick Roman have to do with a cult located in the middle of nowhere? Sam inquired, “What does he say about Dick Roman?”

“It starts on the first page; then he occasionally appears again. He’s talking about a serum.” 

“A serum?” Castiel echoed, his tone startled. “What does it say about a serum?”

“I’ll read the first page to you: 

“‘Today, Zachariah summoned me to his office. Naomi was there. They told me they’d acquired a serum from Dick Roman’s corporation, that it was something that could help the Brethren spread the glory of God. Roman approached us with the product, wanting us to test it out before he used it for his own purposes. I don’t know what those are, exactly. I didn’t ask. I admit that I am a little curious, but I didn’t want to be insubordinate.

“‘Zachariah said he received Revelation about the serum. They need someone to test it out on, and they think I’d be an ideal specimen. They said if I agreed to it, they’d promote me to the Next Level. I want that more than anything. I’ve seen others who are more undeserving reach the Next Level. But I shouldn’t say that. It’s blasphemy. The Brethren do what God wills. 

“‘So of course I agreed. It makes me nervous since I’m not sure what the serum does, but God wouldn’t lead me astray. I know that. They did tell me a little about it, though. Zachariah said the serum would make me a more productive member, and more obedient. I am already obedient, but perhaps I could be more productive.

“‘All I have to do is drink a small dose every evening. I’ll start tonight.’” 

“That shit sounds creepy,” Sam opined after Shiphrah read the last sentence.

“What does that mean? Being more productive and more obedient?” Castiel mused. 

“I don’t know,” Shiphrah replied, her voice shaking.

“I wonder if that is the same serum they were giving to Dean.” 

“How do you know they were giving Dean a serum?” Sam asked.

“I heard them talking about it when they—when I saw Dean a few weeks ago. And the puncture wound on his head looks like an injection site.” 

Sam shivered at the idea of Dean being injected with a mysterious substance. What the hell kind of serum had it been? Why would Dick Roman develop something like that?

“When was that written, Shiphrah? Does it say?” Castiel questioned. 

“Sometime during the beginning of April.”

“That would be about two weeks before they brought Dean and me to Angel Falls,” Castiel observed. 

“Do you think it hurt Samandriel? Like it hurt Dean?” Shiphrah asked.

“I don’t know,” Castiel sighed. “I hope not.” 

Now was Sam’s chance to ask. “Is he okay? Samandriel?”

He couldn’t see their faces, but a frozen tension radiated from them. Shiphrah started weeping again; then Castiel pronounced in a low tone, “He’s dead.” 

“ _What?_ ” Sam exclaimed. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.” 

That made no sense. “How? Why?”

“I don’t know. You remember the blood pouring from his ears?” Sam nodded, but then he realized that Castiel couldn’t see him, so he murmured in agreement. Castiel continued, “When we got back with Dean . . . It was worse. Then he just—I don’t know, Sam. He fell, and I checked his vital signs . . . but there was nothing.” 

“Shit,” Sam muttered. Was it because of the serum? The same serum they might’ve fed to Dean? Sam didn’t want to think about that.

xxxxxxxxxxx 

“May I see the journal, Shiphrah?” Castiel asked. Without a word, she handed him the book and the flashlight. He wanted to see if there was anything about Dean and if it held some clue about Samandriel’s death. The man’s death saddened him more than he could say. 

It was a nice journal, leather-bound, he noted as he flipped through the pages. For the first couple of weeks, all of the entries were similar: Samandriel took a dollop of the serum at night, he felt at peace, he accomplished all his tasks with efficiency, and he experienced fulfillment every time he obeyed an order. But then the thoughts he expressed became more turbulent.

The day after Castiel’s suicide attempt, Samandriel had written the following: 

>   
> _They said I’ve become more resistant to the serum since Castiel arrived. My mind isn’t as pure as they wish. They said I sympathize too much with him. I denied it, but they knew I was lying. They told me they were disappointed in me and that God was disappointed in me. I definitely don’t want to disappoint God. I guess my feelings must be wrong. Maybe they’re right, maybe my soft spot for Castiel is the work of the devil. I want to be good. I want to serve God._
> 
> _I know they serve God, so I trust them with my whole heart._
> 
> _They offered me forgiveness and said they understood. We all encounter temptations from time to time. We must prove our dedication to the Lord by withstanding them. They increased the amount of serum I should take every night, said it would help._

Interesting. Castiel’s presence had brought Samandriel a crisis of conscience.

He raised his eyebrows when he stumbled upon the entry written on the same day Samandriel had insulted Balthazar. 

> _I had an argument with Castiel today. I know he is a heretic, that he will be damned, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him. He was so wounded when I mentioned Balthazar. But it’s the truth, and Castiel should accept it. Stop deluding himself._
> 
> _But how do I know what’s true? I’m sure Balthazar really was a drug dealer. I remember him seeming like a wild sort of person. But people do change. I don’t know what he was like with Castiel, and perhaps I was wrong to say Balthazar never cared for him. I don’t know._
> 
> _I’m confused, my head filled with contradictions. How can I doubt Naomi and Zachariah? Yet I do. I hadn’t before, or I hadn’t let myself before. I have felt uncomfortable with what we do. Like when I helped take money from those people at the gas station. But I knew it must’ve been for the greater good._
> 
> _But when Castiel asked why I was here, it was like a dam broke loose. I pointed out that we take in those who have nowhere else to go, and that’s good, surely._
> 
> _They increased my dose again._

A few days later, Samandriel first mentioned hallucinations. 

> _I don’t know what happened. If I fell asleep or if I was in a trance. I was sitting in Zachariah’s office, Zachariah and Naomi were both there._
> 
> _What happened seemed real, but I know it couldn’t have been. I was standing in a field with Dameal—no, his name is Dean—and the Elders surrounded us in a circle. Castiel was there, too, and we had to damn him. Or Dean did. But first I had to flog Castiel. Zachariah tore off Castiel’s shirt and laughed. It unnerved me. Perhaps punishment is sometimes necessary, but we shouldn’t take pleasure in it. Why would God choose someone like that to lead us? But no, I shouldn’t question God. I’m sure He has his reasons._
> 
> _So, we were in a field, and Zachariah commanded me to whip Castiel. Fifty lashes to the back. I didn’t want to, and my hands were shaking. I refused, and Zachariah snatched the whip from me. He proceeded to flog me instead, and my knees got weak, and I fell. It burned._
> 
> _It still burns now even though it’s over. Even though it didn’t really happen. How strange._
> 
> _They upped the dose yet again._

Castiel chewed his bottom lip, his eyes glazing with tears. Samandriel had experienced hallucinations, like Dean. They’d tortured his mind, like Dean’s. Samandriel had been one of the most innocent people Castiel had ever known. How cruel did you have to be to do these things to him? As if doing them to Dean wasn’t enough. 

For the next few pages, Samandriel described further experiences with the same hallucination. Eventually, he was imprisoned for not obeying then sliced with an angel-blade. Finally, he gave in, thinking that would end things. Still, he felt like he was going mad.

He started losing time and panicked. One minute it would be eight a.m., and the next it would be four p.m. They added another serum to his regimen. Somehow, Zachariah and Naomi seemed to know the innermost recesses of his mind. Anytime he had a thought that didn’t align with the Brethren’s teachings, he’d have a nosebleed. Then it was his ears that were bleeding. If he didn’t do as he was told, he had debilitating migraines. 

Castiel smiled at one of Samandriel’s last entries:

> _I met the new guy today. Samuel. He seems like a nice person. He better stay away from the lodge, though. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him._
> 
> _He’s freakishly tall, gangly. It’s kind of funny. Something struck me about him, but I don’t know what it was. Sort of like déjà vu._
> 
> Samandriel had instantly liked Sam. Castiel understood. 

Had Samandriel died because he’d defied the Brethren? Did the serum attack his brain anytime he was disobedient? How was it even possible to produce such a substance?

What effect would it have on Dean? Would it kill him? _Oh, God. Please, God, no_. 

He ran a hand through Dean’s hair, establishing a rhythm. He kissed his eyelids and whispered, “I won’t let anyone hurt you again. I promise. I’ll die first.” He brushed away the tears that fell onto Dean’s forehead.

xxxxxxxxxxx 

Before they’d driven into Sandpoint, Sam had bought a few items at a truck stop. Go-phones and new clothes for Shiphrah, Dean, and Castiel as well as snacks and medical supplies. Once in Sandpoint, they’d checked into a La Quinta; obviously, it would be unwise to stay in the same motel Castiel and Dean had visited when they were here. Castiel had wanted to find Dean’s Impala right away, but Sam had insisted he shower first. The man hadn’t bathed in weeks, and Sam had almost fainted from the smell during the drive.

Now, as Castiel showered, Sam studied Dean, who they’d laid out on one of the double beds. His face was so pale, those circles under his eyes so dark. He stank, too. 

Shiphrah had changed out of her dress into her new clothes, jeans and a T-shirt. She lounged on the bed, periodically tossing her braid and flipping channels until she landed on a show in which half of the words were bleeped out.

“Why is there so much beeping?” she asked. 

Sam restrained his urge to laugh. “They’re cursing. The channel’s censoring the words out.”

“Oh.” Thankfully, she changed the channel. The bleeping had been getting on Sam’s nerves. 

He needed to call Jess and inform her he was on his way home and bringing three guests with him. Jess would not be happy, but she’d be angrier if he showed up with these people without warning her. He told Shiphrah he was going to make a call then stepped outside; then he took a deep breath and dialed Jess’s number.

After three rings, Jess answered with a groggy, “Hello?” 

“Hey, hon,” Sam replied.

He heard a yawn. “Why’re you callin’ so early? The sun hasn’t even risen yet.” 

Whoops. He probably should’ve waited a couple of hours; he’d forgotten she would still be asleep. “Sorry. I just wanted to give you an update.”

“Well?” 

He might as well get right to it. “I’m comin’ home, babe. Later today.”

“Really?!” 

“Yeah.”

“That’s wonderful, Sam!” 

Sam hated to put a damper on her excitement, but she needed to know the news. “I found Dean.”

“You did?” she gasped. 

“Yeah. And . . . well, I’m bringin’ him back with me.”

Jess’s voice grew subdued. “You are?” 

Sam closed his eyes and rubbed them, paced a little. “Yeah. And the priest, Novak . . . he’s comin’, too. And there’s this girl with us.”

“What the hell, Sam?” she snapped. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “It’s just—well, Angel Falls was crazy. I’ll explain it all to you when I’m home.”

 “What’re you thinking bringing _fugitives_ home? I can understand your brother, but—” 

“Cas promised he’d turn himself in.”

“‘ _Cas’?_ You’re best friends with him now?” 

_Hmm_. Sam hadn’t even noticed he’d taken to calling the priest “Cas.” That was troubling. He was a freakin’ _murderer_ , and Sam would never forget that.

Jess continued, “Why doesn’t he just turn himself in wherever you are?” 

Now there was an idea. But—“No. Um, I kind of need him to drive my car.”

“What?” 

“I’m bringin’ Dean’s car back with us.”

“Why can’t Dean drive it?” 

There was the elephant in the room, the topic he dreaded discussing with Jess. In-person would be hard enough, but on the phone? Sam’s voice wobbled as he said, “Dean’s unconscious, Jess. He—I think he’s hurt pretty bad.”

“Oh, my God. What happened?”

“I’ll tell you everything when I get back. It’ll take a while to explain.” 

“Okay.” She paused. “See you soon.”

“See you soon, love.” 

“Bye.”

“Bye.” 

Sam ambled back into the room and was greeted by a bizarre sight.

Dean was awake. 

That was the good part.

But he had Castiel shoved against the wall, one hand clasped around the priest’s throat, the other flailing in the air. 

And Novak wasn’t putting up a struggle.

xxxxxxxxxx 

This time, Dean was in a motel room. His eyes landed on an off-white wall and Cas, who stood a few inches in front of it, his hair dripping wet. Cas’s eyes flicked toward him as Dean sat up, and his joy was palpable. “Hello, Dean,” he said, smiling with—relief? 

Okay. Wait, he was supposed to correct him. “My name is Dameal,” he protested.

Cas’s grin disappeared. “Dean—” 

“I’m fuckin’ _Dameal_ ,” Dean emphasized again.

“Dean—” 

“Shut up!” he exclaimed. This wasn’t right. Cas always called him Dameal once Dean corrected him. Why wasn’t he doing it this time?

It was a test. Yeah, that must be it. They wanted to see how he would respond if Cas insisted on addressing him as Dean. Well, he could play this game, too. Whatever it took to save Cas. 

“I’m Dameal.”

Cas’s eyes watered, and Dean’s heart broke a little. But this wasn’t real, he reminded himself. Feeling sorrow was pointless. 

He knew what he must do next.

Where was Naomi? 

“Naomi!” he shouted. “Give me your freakin’ sword!”

“Dean,” Cas cut in, “Naomi’s not—” 

He couldn’t listen to that familiar gravelly voice; it would ruin his resolve. “I told you to shut the fuck up!” he yelled before slapping Cas for good measure.

Cas recoiled, his expression startled. “Where’s that damn sword, Naomi?” he bellowed again. 

Un-fuckin’-believable. What did she expect him to do now?

He had to prove to her he could do this. But how? 

He shunted Cas against the wall, executing a viselike grip with his left hand. He waved his right hand in the air, reaching for the sword he knew would come. But when it didn’t materialize, he squeezed Cas’s neck with both hands. “I’m sorry,” Dean murmured. Why was he always apologizing to a figment of his imagination? “I have to do this. For the real Cas.”

He pressed harder against Cas’s throat, and Cas didn’t even try to wiggle out of his grasp. That was unusual. Usually Cas put up a fight. But this time he didn’t, and _damn_ if that didn’t make this more difficult. Gurgling sounds burst from Cas’s throat as he struggled to breathe. 

Then someone he hadn’t seen in almost ten years stepped into view.

“Dean—” this figure began. 

“Sammy?” Dean whispered. He was so stunned he dropped his hands to his sides.

Sam offered a mournful smile. “Yeah, Dean. It’s me.” 

Sam could _not_ be here. That would be nonsensical. The bitch was at it again. “Fuckin’ hell!” he wailed. “You want me to kill Sammy now, too? Fuck you, Naomi!”

“What’re you talkin’ about? Dean—” 

“What the hell, Naomi? Not brave enough to show yourself?” Dean taunted.

Sam placed a tender hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Dean—” 

He wrenched himself away. How stupid did Naomi think he was? He wasn’t gonna fall for another of her damn tricks. This Sam didn’t even act like the real Sam—he was too caring. Sam had torn Dean out of his life, and for good reason. He didn’t deserve to be saddled with a piece of shit brother like Dean.

“Damn, Naomi. You want me to kill this Sam? Fine. It’s not even a good replica. Sam hates me, because I deserve it.” Sam winced. “Now give me the friggin’ sword already!” 

Instead of Naomi, a teenage girl stepped forward.

“Shiphrah, don’t—” Cas muttered. 

“Dean?” Shiphrah ventured.

Dean felt his lips form into a goofy grin. “You’re new. Don’t you know you’re supposed to call me Dameal?” 

“Dean,” she repeated. Why did she look so nervous? “You—you should rest.”

“Huh?” There was no way he’d heard her correctly. 

“Yes. Lie down.”

He obeyed. This was strange, but if it was what the Brethren wanted, okay. Keeping them happy kept Cas alive. 

“Good,” Shiphrah said. “Now close your eyes.”

He did. He returned to the blissful nothingness, where he didn’t have to worry about any of this.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Sam trembled. Dean’s words had wounded him at the core. He seemed to have been experiencing a hallucination, but that didn’t make his utterance any less painful.

Now Dean was—asleep? Comatose again? 

“Thank you, Shiphrah,” Castiel said to the girl. She nodded and retreated back to her bed.

“How come he listened to her and not me?” Sam asked. 

“I think it’s because he doesn’t know who she is,” Castiel answered.

“What?” 

“I don’t know how the hallucinations work,” Castiel elaborated. “But it appears he’s prompted to attack those he loves, for whatever reason.” _Loves_. The idea of Dean loving the priest still seemed foreign; he wasn’t sure he’d believe it until he witnessed Dean and Castiel interacting.

“So—” 

“So when he saw Shiphrah, he thought she was one of the Brethren, who he’s been conditioned to obey. That’s my theory, anyway.”

“Ah.” He paused. “When he was choking you, you didn’t even try to resist. Why?” 

Castiel shrugged. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“Even if that meant him killing you?” Castiel didn’t respond, but the steeliness in his eyes was enough, their brightness starkly contrasting with the bruises on his neck. _Yes_. 

He loved Dean that much. It awed Sam.

Dean’s words played through his mind again. _Sam hates me, because I deserve it._  

Sam didn’t know which hurt more—the fact that Dean thought so little of himself, or the fact that he thought Sam hated him.

Sam couldn’t restrain his tears anymore, so he presented his back to Castiel and stared at the wall as they fell. Thing was, he could see how he could’ve given Dean that impression, what with him shunning his brother for the past nine years. Yes, he believed Dean was weak in some ways, like his willingness to let Dad beat the shit out of him. But he loved Dean, deep down, and now that Sam acknowledged the love, it surged into every corner of his being. 

Someone put a hand on his shoulder. “Sam—” Castiel started.

Sam shrugged him off. “Leave me alone,” he warned. 

When he had regained his composure, Sam turned around. Castiel had bandaged Dean’s forehead and rolled up Dean’s shirt. He drew a cold compress over Dean’s skin. “What’re you doing?” Sam inquired.

“He’s burning up,” Castiel explained. 

Sam felt Dean’s forehead. Indeed, he was feverish. He glanced at Dean’s chest, his eyes grazing the anti-possession tattoo that matched his own. They’d each gotten one for their seventh birthday. What kind of dad did that?

He observed the other scars covering Dean’s torso and a burn mark on his left shoulder. “What did they do to him?” Sam whispered. 

“Who, the Brethren?” Sam nodded, and Castiel followed his gaze. “This wasn’t them, Sam. It was your father.”

“What?” No, that couldn’t be. Sam’s body bore a couple of scars from Dad’s punishments, but nothing of that magnitude. 

“The Brethren didn’t harm Dean’s body; they harmed his mind,” Castiel declared.

Sam pointed at the burn. “What about that?” 

Castiel sighed. “That was your father, too.”

“I don’t remember that.” Now that he thought about it, he realized he’d never seen Dean shirtless before. Until now, that’d never struck him as odd. 

Castiel donned a desolate expression. “Your father blamed Dean for the fire. He wanted him to know what it felt like.”

“Jesus. Dean told you that?” 

“Reluctantly.”

God. No wonder Dean couldn’t defy Dad. Dad had beaten him into submission. Just like the Angelic Brethren. 

Sam noted a chi-rho on a leather cord around Dean’s neck. “Where’d he get that?”

“I gave it to him for his birthday. It was the first time we—” Castiel’s face reddened. “—kissed.” 

Kissed. Or had sex. Gross, he didn’t want to imagine Dean and the priest fucking.

So they’d exchanged necklaces, after a fashion. That was kind of sweet. Sweet. Ha. Dean would kill him for using that word. The thought produced a small grin. 

Half an hour later, Sam and Castiel left to fetch Dean’s car and told Shiphrah to watch over Dean while they were gone. Sam showed her how to use the phone and directed her to call them if she encountered any problems.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean woke up in the same motel room he’d been in last time. He surveyed his surroundings. Shiphrah lay on the other bed, her eyes glued to the TV. Someone was loudly banging on the door, and it was flung open a few seconds later. Two men stepped through: Inias and Esper. Shiphrah jumped to her feet, her eyes frantic. 

“There’s the traitor!” Esper exclaimed. They crept toward her like wolves.

He bounded to his feet and hollered, “Leave her alone!” 

They turned to Dean, and Inias smirked as he assured, “Don’t worry, Dameal. We’ll get to you.” They each grabbed an arm of Shiphrah’s and dragged her to the doorway. She squirmed in their grasp.

“Why pick on her, anyway?” Dean asked. “She’s one of you.” 

Inias and Esper ignored him, and Shiphrah dug her feet into the carpet, refusing to budge, her face silently pleading with Dean for help. Dean didn’t know what to do. He was supposed to obey Inias and Esper, but he was also supposed to obey Shiphrah. They all belonged to the Brethren.

Instinct took over. As the outmatched party, Shiphrah warranted defending. 

“Why don’t ya let her go?” Dean urged. They responded by yanking Shiphrah through the doorway.

He followed them outside and threw a punch at Esper. Taken by surprise, Esper fell to the ground, his head hitting the concrete sidewalk, rendering him unconscious. Inias dropped Shiphrah’s arm and approached Dean, producing a syringe from his pocket. Dean backed away, but he wasn’t fast enough to escape as Inias stabbed at his temple. Dean cursed as he stumbled, his vision swaying, yet he still managed to slam Inias against the wall. He pounded Inias’s head against the building, and Inias collapsed onto the ground. Dean stepped backward into the doorway; then the floor rose to meet him.

xxxxxxxxxx 

First, Castiel and Sam headed for the motel where Castiel and Dean had been staying when they’d been taken by the Brethren. When they arrived, they found the motel nearly deserted, only three other cars in sight, none of them Dean’s. Castiel strolled into the office while Sam waited in the car.

The motel clerk looked up from his battered paperback when Castiel entered. This one was different from last time, in his mid-forties with a sloppily trimmed mustache matching his oily black hair. “Can I help you?” he asked in a monotone. 

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “A friend and I spent the night at your establishment a few weeks ago. But, ah, we had a problem with our car, and we left it here. However, I do not see it outside. Do you know where I might find it?”

The man shrugged, blowing a bubble with his gum and speaking after it popped. “Dunno. Probably got towed.” 

“Towed.”

“Yeah. Check the impoundment lot.” 

Impoundment lot? Would Dean’s car still be there? Were they too late? _Please no._ Dean would be lost without his baby. “Where is the impoundment lot?”

“Here, I’ll draw ya a map.” The man pulled a yellowed receipt out of a stack of papers and used a black Bic pen to scrawl something on the back. When he finished, he shoved it toward Castiel. “There. That oughtta do it.” 

“Thanks.” He scurried out of the office while staring at the map. He hoped Sam could understand it; he didn’t.

“Well?” Sam prompted him when he crawled back into the car. 

“The clerk thinks it was impounded,” Castiel explained as he passed Sam the slip of paper. “He drew a map, but I can’t read it.”

“Hmm.” As Sam studied the diagram, Castiel thought about what’d occurred earlier. When Dean had attacked him. Castiel had just stepped out of the shower, and he was examining Dean, contemplating how best to bandage his head. Then Dean had suddenly jerked awake. He’d insisted Castiel call him Dameal. 

Castiel despaired. The Brethren had brainwashed him. What if the damage had been permanent?

No. He refused to believe that. 

Sam had asked whether Castiel would have let Dean kill him. At first, Castiel had been too stunned to react when Dean started choking him, but when he had recovered from the shock, he knew he couldn’t hurt Dean. His actions hadn’t been truly his, anyway.

A part of him had also believed Dean wouldn’t be able to go that far, that reality would dawn on Dean before that could happen. He would realize he was harming the real Castiel and let go. 

But Sam had interrupted before Castiel could test his theory.

Perhaps that had been for the best. 

Castiel felt tears forming in his eyes, and as Sam switched on the car, he wiped them away.

When they reached the impound yard, Castiel’s phone rang. Shiphrah. What was wrong? 

“Hello?” Castiel answered. Sam switched off the vehicle and gazed at Castiel.

“Castiel?” Shiphrah ventured. 

“Yes, Shiphrah. What is it? Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She sounded uncertain. “But Dean . . . ” 

Castiel straightened up. “Yes. What about Dean?” Sam raised his eyebrows.

“Inias and Esper are here.—” 

“ _What?_ ”

“They came, and Dean took care of them.” 

“What do you mean he took care of them?”

“They were going to take me, but then Dean woke up and stopped them. They’re unconscious now.” 

“Who’s unconscious?”

“Inias and Esper and Dean. Inias injected something into Dean’s temple.” 

Castiel groaned. “They could wake up any minute. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“All right.” 

“What’s up?” Sam asked when Castiel ended the call.

“The Brethren showed up. Shiphrah’s fine.—I’ll tell you about it later. But now we need to hurry, leave Sandpoint before Inias and Esper regain consciousness.” 

“Huh? She beat them in a fight?”

“Dean did.” Sam looked puzzled. “As I said, I’ll explain later. We should hurry.” 

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Okay.”

Sam paid an astronomical amount of money for the Impala’s release. He insisted on driving Dean’s car, and Castiel agreed, understanding that operating it was part of Sam’s personal journey, of repairing his relationship with Dean. _Sam hates me, because I deserve it_. He recalled the hurt in Sam’s eyes when he’d heard those words. 

It was difficult to read Sam. He’d severed ties with Dean, yet he clearly still loved him.

At the La Quinta, they found the door of their room open with Dean lying on the threshold. Esper and Inias lay on the ground nearby. 

“Oh, my God,” Sam gasped. Castiel wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Esper beginning to stir.

“We need to leave now,” Castiel reminded him. 

“Yeah,” Sam muttered.

They maneuvered Dean into the back of the Impala, and Shiphrah gathered their few belongings. Sam wanted Shiphrah to ride with him, too. Evidently, Sam didn’t trust Castiel, and Castiel didn’t begrudge him for it. Why would Sam trust him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how the serum works. I know what it does, but as for scientific properties and what's really possible . . . don't ask me, lol.
> 
> I think there are 3-5 chapters left, depending on how long the upcoming scenes turn out.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback is welcome!


	12. Resurrection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In November, I'm supposed to be doing NaNoWriMo, but I'm so close to finishing this story. Besides, my head is stuck in it. So I'll continue to work on this fic . . . I don't think I'll be able to fully focus on the NaNo novel until this is finished, anyway.

On the highway, Castiel followed closely behind Sam. Occasionally Sam would pass a car and speed ahead as if unconcerned about whether or not Castiel could catch up. Was he doing that on purpose? It seemed so, but then again, Sam wouldn’t want to lose his own car, would he? 

They drove for almost fifteen hours straight, pulling over only for bathroom breaks and snacks. At their first stop, Castiel discovered Shiphrah had re-bandaged Dean’s head, and he thanked her for it.

Around ten-thirty at night, they finally arrived at Sam’s abode. Castiel yawned as he lurched out of the car, and Sam led him and Shiphrah inside. Even in the dark, Sam’s house was gorgeous. White, Victorian, with a large front porch containing a wooden swing and two patio chairs. 

They passed through a living room with plush tan carpeting and brand new furniture then entered a large kitchen. Granite countertops, stainless steel stove and refrigerator, tons of wooden cabinets. It boggled the mind.

An attractive blonde woman sat at the long rectangular wooden table, nursing a cup of coffee. Her mouth twitched into a small grin as she glanced up at Sam. “Hey, hon. You made it,” she greeted him. 

“Yeah.” Sam cleared his throat and gestured toward Shiphrah and Castiel. “This is Shiphrah and Castiel. Guys, this is my wife Jessica.”

Castiel extended a hand toward her. “Pleased to meet you,” he commented as they shook hands. He thought he spotted a spark of resentment in her eyes. If she resented him, he didn’t blame her. Why would she relish the idea of harboring the man who’d killed her husband’s father? Next, she shook hands with Shiphrah and offered her a kind smile. 

Jessica covered her mouth as she yawned. She placed her coffee cup in the sink and wryly remarked, “Guess this didn’t help much. I’m pooped. It was hell getting Mariana to sleep.” She pecked Sam on the lips. “’Night, love.” Sam looked as if he was about to speak, but she smiled and said, “Yes, I made up the bed in the guest room.” Sam blushed, and Jessica headed toward her bedroom.

“So, sleeping arrangements,” Sam muttered. 

“Dean’s still not awake, is he,” Castiel half-asked, half-stated. Sam shook his head. What a stupid sentence to utter. Of course Dean wasn’t awake; otherwise, he would’ve come inside with them. Why hadn’t Jessica seemed curious about him, though? Maybe Sam had informed her of Dean’s condition over the phone.

How long would it be until Dean woke up again? Would he understand they were no longer with the Brethren? 

“I’ve only got the one guest bedroom,” Sam continued. “There’s an air mattress. Someone can have that, and someone can sleep on the couch.”

“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” Shiphrah volunteered. 

“No, you should take the bed,” Castiel countered. He certainly didn’t need the bed.

“No. Dean should get the bed.” She paused before adding, “He’s been thrashing in his sleep, Castiel. At least he wouldn’t fall off a bed.” 

Castiel nodded. “Yes.” His heart burned. Thrashing in his sleep? Was Dean having nightmares? Did he think the nightmares were real? “I’ll sleep on the air mattress, next to the bed.” He turned to Sam. “If that is all right?” He was afraid the proposal would offend Sam.

But instead, Sam flashed a wan smile. “Of course.” 

Sam dug up blankets and pillows for Shiphrah and Castiel; then Sam and Castiel carried Dean inside and tucked him into the bed. After Sam departed the room, Castiel kissed Dean on the brow and smoothed back his hair before settling onto the air mattress. He tried to stay awake to keep watch over Dean, but his eyes eventually drifted closed. He dreamed of Dean: happy memories and hope for things to come.

xxxxxxxxxx 

In the morning after breakfast, Sam pulled Castiel aside. “So,” Sam began. “We made it home.”

“Yes,” Castiel murmured. 

“We got Dean out of that damn place. You, too. So, ah, . . . turning yourself in. I think it’s time. Everything’s under control, and, um, you know. I think it’s just what’s best for everybody.”

Castiel blinked up at him as he attempted to formulate a reply. He had promised to turn himself in, and he fully intended to do so. However, he still didn’t know if Dean was okay. If he surrendered to the police now, he might never know. It would be agony to live with that . . . and perhaps he deserved to live in agony, but he couldn’t bear being in the dark about Dean. 

“Sam,” Castiel beseeched him. “I made a solemn vow to you, and I will hold to it. I know I said I had only one request, for you to help Shiphrah leave the Brethren, but . . . ” He swallowed, and resolve carried him forward. “But—and perhaps you don’t want to hear this, forgive me—I love Dean with everything that I am. And I—I can’t just go without knowing whether or not Dean is all right. This is my last request. Let me stay until he wakes up. Please?”

Sam frowned, his expressed miffed. “You promised. You said you had one request. If I say yes, how do I know you won’t keep asking for stuff?” 

“It’s not like that. I won’t ask for anything more after this.”

“Do you swear?” 

Castiel licked his lips nervously. “Yes. I swear it.”

Sam sighed, but his expression softened. “Fine. But when Dean wakes up—you’re gone.” 

“I understand.”  Despite his fear, he would obey his conscience, honor his word.

xxxxxxxxxx

Jessica and Sam went to work and dropped Mariana off at daycare, leaving Shiphrah, Castiel, and Dean alone in the house. This surprised Castiel. He was a murderer, after all. 

_Murderer_. He’d killed not once but twice, and each act was seared into his soul. How could he have ever thought God would accept his service? That he was worthy of being a priest?

Father Raphael and Father Michael had defiled the Church with their deeds, but so had he. 

_Murderer_.

The other two priests’ corruption had appalled him, but what gave him the right to judge? He was no better than them. 

_Murderer_.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked Sam for that favor after all. It had been selfish. He didn’t deserve the mercy Sam had shown him. 

_Murderer_.

Castiel burrowed under a blanket all day, listening to Dean as he writhed and occasionally murmured unintelligible words. 

Shiphrah tried to coax him into the living room, but he refused. He wasn’t worthy of her regard.

xxxxxxxxxx 

The day had passed, yet Dean still hadn’t woken up. No doubt it was an effect of the serum. Who knew how long it would be until Dean’s eyes opened? Castiel sighed.

But he was determined. He wouldn’t sleep until Dean awoke. He’d watch Dean all the while, and he would be there for Dean when he came out of his present state. 

He couldn’t prevent his eyes from drooping, however. He needed something. Coffee. He’d make himself a huge pot. Hopefully, Sam wouldn’t mind.

He traipsed into the kitchen without heeding his surroundings. When they finally registered, he realized the kitchen light was already on. His eyes swept the room until he spotted Jessica by the table, rocking her daughter in the crook of her arm and holding a cup of coffee in her free hand. When he entered, she turned around to face him. 

This would be awkward. But he couldn’t back out now that she’d seen him. “Um, ah, I,” he stammered. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She indicated the coffeemaker. “Feel free to pour yourself a cup.” 

After he filled up a mug, he joined Jessica at the table and sipped the coffee. The baby cooed, and Jessica said with a short laugh, “Mariana can’t sleep, either. At least she’s not crying anymore.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. 

“Shit,” Jessica murmured. “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom, but I’m scared she’ll start crying again if I put her down. Do you mind holding her for a sec?”

Castiel smiled. “Of course not.” She handed Mariana to him then dashed out of the room. Castiel marveled that Jessica trusted him with Mariana, but, he reflected, even murderers wouldn’t kill a baby. Mariana was now in his arms because of happenstance more than anything else. 

He gazed down at the baby. She was beautiful. She had her mother’s eyes, and tufts of sandy brown hair stood up in every direction. The same color as Dean’s. Mariana giggled, wrapped a hand around the collar of his shirt, and buried her face in his neck.

He’d thought about it once, adopting a child with Dean. It had been a fleeting notion, and he’d never mentioned it to Dean, who probably would’ve panicked at the suggestion. 

But that possibility was closed to them now.

Perhaps it was for the best. Doubtless Castiel was too broken to be an effective parent. 

Jessica returned from the bathroom and grinned at him. “Wow. She likes you.”

“It would seem so,” Castiel affirmed. 

“She usually hates strangers. I kind of thought she’d be crying when I came back.”

“But you said—” 

“I know. Maybe I’m too tired to make sense. It’s just, I knew she would cry if I put her down, but there was a chance she wouldn’t if I gave her to you.” She shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”

“Do you want her back?” 

“No. You hold her for another minute. You two look cute together.”

Castiel reddened. “She is an adorable child.” Mariana’s grip had grown slack, and Castiel glanced down at her. “I think she’s asleep.” 

“Thank God. Let’s put her to bed.”

After the mother had carefully deposited the infant into her crib, Castiel whispered, “Thank you, Jessica. For letting me hold her.” 

The tension between them drained away, and Jessica’s body language grew more relaxed.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean surveyed the world around him. Where the fuck was he?

It looked like a space of literal nothingness. A blank whiteness surrounded him, a bit too bright.

“Dean,” a familiar voice called from behind him, and no, it couldn’t be. 

Yet it was. When he turned, there she was— _Mom_.

Wearing the same white nightgown she’d died in, and Dean recoiled at the thought. “Mommy?” he breathed, and he knew he sounded like he was four again. He felt like it, too. 

She held out her arms to him. “Dean. C’mere.”

Dean obeyed, and she threw her arms around him. He gripped her tightly and wept onto her shoulder, the pain of everything, his entire life, pouring out of him. 

She patted him on the back. “There, there,” she soothed. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

After an eternity, after only a second, Dean pulled back and gazed at her, wondering if his eyes were as red as hers. “Am I dead?” he asked, fearing the answer. 

She smiled wistfully. “No, not dead. Just in-between.”

“In-between?” 

“It’s where you go when you’re halfway between life and death.”

“So, I’m dying?” Dean wondered. 

“No. You’re healing.” She swiped at her eyes. “Gosh. I didn’t mean to cry so much. It’s just been so long since I’ve seen you. My baby boy.” Tears streamed down Dean’s own cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry? For what?” 

“If . . . if it weren’t for what happened that night, I could’ve saved you from it all.”

_It all_. Dean knew what she meant by those two words. _Your life. John._ He gasped out a short laugh, followed by a sob. “It’s not your fault.” 

She cupped his chin with one hand. “It’s not yours, either.”

Dean’s face crumpled. “But it is. I’m sorry, Mommy.” His knees shook, but Mom placed a hand on his shoulder, imbuing him with the strength to stay upright. 

Her voice grew resolute. “No, Dean. John had no right to do that to you.” Her eyes seemed to reach his very soul. He couldn’t stop weeping, and she pulled her into him once more, his eyes soaking the shoulder of her nightgown.

“I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice muffled. 

She ran a hand through his hair, just like he remembered her doing whenever he had a nightmare. “Shh. Stop apologizing.”

“I can’t go back. I’m too broken to go back. I want to stay with you.”

“No, Dean. There’s so much for waiting for you.” 

“There’s nothing for me.”

She stepped back and grinned, her eyes shining with happiness. “Of course there is.” 

“But—”

“It’s time for you to return, Dean. I love you.” 

“I love you, too, Mommy.” Why did he sound so fragile?

“Remember. Angels are watching over you.” 

The pronouncement filled him with warmth. She used to tell him that every night when she tucked him in.

Then she was gone, and the white nothingness morphed into a strange bedroom. 

Two familiar blue eyes stared down at him. Then—he understood Mom’s words.

“My angel,” he whispered. 

_Mine_.

xxxxxxxxxx 

“Dean!” Castiel exclaimed when the hazel orbs flew open. Dean’s eyes were glazed, but lucid. Unlike in Sandpoint. “You’re here!”

“’Course I’m here,” Dean muttered. “Where else would I be?” His eyes scanned the room. “Where are we, anyway?” 

“Sam’s.”

“Huh? The store?” 

Castiel chuckled at Dean’s confusion. He joined Dean on the bed and clarified, “No. Your brother’s.”

Dean froze. “My what? . . . Sammy?” 

Castiel smiled. “Yes. Him.”

“But how? Why?” He squinted at Castiel and drew the tips of his fingers over the bruises layering Castiel’s neck. “How did this happen?” Oh, how Dean’s touch electrified him. It’d been weeks since they’d had even this much contact. Castiel witnessed the horror engulfing Dean’s countenance as the truth dawned on him. Dean retracted his fingers and moaned, “Oh, no. It was me.” 

“Dean—”

“That wasn’t a dream? Shit.” 

“It’s all right. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“But I coulda killed ya, Cas.” 

“That was their plan.”

“What?” 

“The Brethren.” Castiel shivered at the memory. “That’s what Zachariah told me on the first day. He said they would convert you, change your name to Dameal; then you’d damn me.”

Dean paled. “Fuck.” 

Castiel grabbed Dean’s hand and rubbed his thumb over the palm. “But it’s okay now. We’re not there anymore.”

“Thank God.” 

“Yes.”

“How—Sammy? And there was this girl. What was her name?” 

“Shiphrah. She’s here, in the living room.”

“But—Sammy? Really?” 

“Yes.”

“How did he find us?” 

 “I have no idea. I believe he was looking for you.”

“Huh.” After a minute, he added, “What’s that smell? Wait a minute.” He sniffed his armpit. “Son of a bitch. That’s me.” 

“We were in Angel Falls for quite some time,” Castiel pointed out.

“Yeah, and it’s not like those bastards cared about my hygiene. You cool if I take a shower?” 

“Definitely.”

Dean chortled. “You’re tired of my stank, aren’t ya?” Castiel would neither confirm nor deny the assertion. 

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean thought about matters as he showered. The conversations with Mom and Cas. Had that talk with Mom really happened? It couldn’t have, but it had felt so real. More likely, it had been a hallucination or dream, but a part of him wanted it to be real. It would mean Mom had forgiven him. 

Or believed he had nothing to be forgiven for.

Sam puzzled him even more. Why would he suddenly search for Dean? Was it because Dad had died? Still, even so—why? 

Not that he wasn’t grateful. He was friggin’ ecstatic. After all these years, he’d finally get to see Sam again. And meet his wife. His daughter. Dean’s _niece_.

They weren’t home at the moment, and Dean both looked forward to and dreaded their arrival. 

But Cas. Cas had said the Brethren meant for Dean to damn him. They’d forced Dean to kill Cas time after time in his dreams, saying they’d keep Cas alive if he did so. But fuck, he’d almost killed Cas _for real_ in that motel room. Only he’d thought it was another one of those dreams.

Then it clicked. The shit they’d been doping him with when they’d jammed that needle into his head. He felt for the spot on his temple, and his fingers grazed over a dampening bandage. Well, that would have to be reapplied. Why hadn’t he noticed it earlier? 

So, they’d been doping him up, knowing one day he’d reach a state where he couldn’t tell the difference between illusion and reality. And _that’s_ when they were planning to have him damn Cas.

Damn. They’d almost succeeded. If Sam hadn’t whisked them away, Dean might’ve killed Cas by now. 

Dean might be some douchebag named Dameal by now.

Thank God for Sam, whatever his reasons had been. 

He welcomed the sensation of the hot water scalding his skin, its burn cleansing the poison from his outsides and insides.

When he stepped out of the shower, he studied himself in the mirror before he shaved the raggedy mess on his face. No new marks on his body despite what he remembered—those bastards slicing him open all over. Like those times he’d killed Cas, they’d been hallucinations. 

After Dean dressed himself in clean clothes, Cas gently pulled off the bandage and wrapped his head in another one before leading Dean outside to show him his baby, safe and sound. Dean tried to hide the tears of joy springing to his eyes. Next, they strolled into the living room, holding hands and smiling at each other. Dean and Shiphrah introduced themselves to each other; then the three of them watched a marathon of _Duck Dynasty_. A stupid show, but it sucked them in, and it was what Dean needed right now—mindless, relaxing junk. On the couch, Cas and Dean took turns leaning on the other.

xxxxxxxxxx 

When Sam arrived home from work, he stepped into the living room through the front door. What he saw caught him by surprise, and he dropped his briefcase. Dean and Castiel lounging together on the couch, Shiphrah on the recliner, all three of them watching that stupid reality show with the guys sporting mangy beards. 

But what startled him most was the fluid body language between Dean and the priest. Dean was resting his head on Castiel’s shoulder, his hand clasping Castiel’s, his thumb caressing up and down Castiel’s knuckles.

Three sets of eyes turned to Sam, and a grin slowly spread across Dean’s face. Castiel stood up and tapped Shiphrah on the shoulder. “We’ll leave you two alone,” Castiel announced as he and the girl shuffled out of the room. 

Dean bounded off the couch and rushed toward Sam, enveloping him in a hug. “Sam,” he uttered gruffly when he finally pulled back, his eyes twinkling with amazement. “I knew . . . but I couldn’t really believe it until I saw you.” Dean laughed. “It’s so damn good to see ya, Sammy!”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. Neither of them knew what else to say, so an awkward silence descended. After a few minutes, Sam suggested, “Why don’t we sit down?” Dean nodded as he collapsed back onto the couch and Sam took the recliner. 

“You found us,” Dean said. “Cas and me.”

“Yeah.” 

“How? . . . Lemme tell ya; I thought Cas and I were fucked.”

“It’s kind of a long story.” 

Dean crossed his arms and leaned back. “We’ve got time.”

“Um.” Where could he even begin? “First, I heard about Dad.” Dean tensed, and a shadow passed across his face. Sam noted the sorrow in his eyes. Maybe he shouldn’t talk about Dad right now. “So, ah, you and a priest, huh?” 

Dean bit back a smile. “Yeah. Damn funny, isn’t it?”

“Yup.” Sam paused. “Why?” 

Dean’s face darkened, and Sam realized he hadn’t been tactful. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just weird, isn’t it?” 

“I know. But I, uh . . . I dunno. It feels right.”

Sam read the lines behind Dean’s stammering. He obviously had a great deal of affection for Castiel. Perhaps loved him, though Sam still found that idea a stretch. 

This, even though Castiel had murdered Dad. Maybe Dean didn’t know.

“You know he killed Dad, right?” Sam replied skeptically. 

Dean glared at him. “Don’t you dare talk to me about that.”

“But—” 

“I said no!” Dean snarled.

Sam held up a hand. “Okay, okay. I get it. But still. Even if, ah, you were going to turn gay . . . him, really?” Castiel struck Sam as awkward and nerdy. Definitely not Dean’s type. “It just doesn’t seem like you.” 

“You don’t know him like I do,” Dean intoned. He raised his voice with the next words. “What do you mean, ‘turn gay’? I didn’t just go and turn gay.”

Well, that was quite a shock. “What? You’ve always been gay?” 

“No!” Dean exclaimed. “It’s just—it’s complicated, okay?”

“Not really, Dean. You’re in a relationship with a guy. That means you’re gay.” 

“God, you’re so infuriating,” Dean huffed.

“It’s just, this guy. Novak—” 

“Cas,” Dean interrupted.

Sam blinked. “Okay, Cas. This relationship with him doesn’t seem like the brightest idea.” 

“Why? Are you a fuckin’ homophobe?”

“What! No.—” 

Dean bounded to his feet. “Listen, I’m grateful that you saved us, Cas and me, however you did it, but you don’t get to preach to me about how to live my life. If you have a problem with me and Cas, I’ll take him and leave.”

“Dean—” 

“And if that means you’ll ignore me for another damn ten years, _fine_.”

That stung. Sam hadn’t meant for it to be like this. Why did he have to go and offend Dean? His first real conversation with Dean in forever, and they’d ended up arguing. “Look, Dean,” he offered. “I’m sorry, okay? For what I just said. For everything.” He swallowed. “You’re my brother, Dean. I love you. And I was such an idiot . . . ” Sam tried to hold back the sobs, but he couldn’t anymore. “I didn’t realize how dumb I’d been until it was too late, and I thought I’d never see you again.—” Sam broke down, unable to continue speaking. 

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean sighed as he embraced Sam. “I love you, baby brother. I always have.”

“I know,” Sam wept. 

Dean rocked him gently. “Shh, Sammy,” he soothed. “It’s okay.”

xxxxxxxxxx 

After Sam and Dean had gotten the chick flick stuff out of the way, they sat down on the couch. They heard a key turning in the front door’s lock, and a gorgeous leggy blonde entered the living room, a baby girl nestled in her arm. Dean recognized her from Sam’s wedding photos, and he held in a breath, awed to finally see Sam’s wife and daughter in person.

She approached him and proffered her hand. “I’m Jess.” 

“I’m Dean,” he said when he relinquished her hand.

She grinned, the action making her almost as pretty as Cas. Almost. Dean didn’t think it was possible for anyone to be prettier than Cas. “I know.” 

Dean gestured toward the infant. “Mariana?”

“Yeah.” 

“Can I—can I hold her?” Dean asked, suddenly timid.

Jess responded by passing Mariana to Dean and joining him and Sam on the couch. It felt strange being sandwiched between the married couple, but it also evoked a tight warmth inside him. Dean ran his hand over her hair, touched her cheek with his index finger. “Well, just look at you,” he murmured. “The most beautiful baby in the world.” She scrunched up her face, looking quizzical. “Yes, you are,” he reiterated, his voice rising an octave. She laughed, the sound rivaling the dulcet melodies of Led Zeppelin. 

She was too cute. And so tiny . . . it astounded him.

“She’s taken to you,” Jess commented. “She doesn’t usually like strangers.” 

Dean smiled. “That’s ’cause I ain’t a stranger. I’m family.” Mariana cooed, and he clasped her against his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Cas in the hallway. “Hey, Cas!” he shouted.

Cas stepped into the living room. “Yes?” 

“Check it out. My niece. Is she the most badass baby in the universe or what?”

“She _is_ wonderful,” Cas confirmed. 

Mariana started whining and flailing her arms. It took Dean a second to realize she was reaching for Cas. He frowned, and Cas approached, seeking permission from Jess before Dean slipped her into his arms. Cas cradled her carefully as he sank into the recliner, and Mariana resumed her satisfied coos.

“How come she likes you more than me?” Dean griped. “ _I’m_ her uncle.” His complaint garnered no reaction. 

Cas’s stubble brushed her cheek, and she giggled. Cas smiled, his eyes merry. “You like that,” he pronounced softly in that half-questioning half matter-of-fact way of his. They played a weird game Dean couldn’t figure out, something involving her getting to scratch her cheeks against his stubble. Sam and Jess looked a little puzzled as well, but whatever it was, Cas and Mariana seemed to understand each other.

After a little while, Mariana yawned, and Cas hummed a tune to her. She burrowed against his neck and fell asleep.

And damn if Dean hadn’t seen anything so adorable in his life. Hell, Mariana and Cas were each adorable on their own, but together?—Cuteness overload. 

He was so incredibly turned on at the moment, but it probably wasn’t a good idea to initiate sexy times in Sam’s house.

xxxxxxxxxx 

“Y’know,” Jess said thoughtfully as she slid into bed next to Sam that night. “Mariana likes them.”

Sam threw an arm around her shoulders. “Huh?” 

“Dean and Castiel. Shiphrah, too.”

“Oh.” What was the big deal about that? 

“She tends to have good judgment.”

“What are you saying?” 

“It just makes me think. There’s something to be said for instinct. Maybe they didn’t . . . you know. Maybe they’re not responsible for your dad’s death.”

“ _They’re_ not.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Dean didn’t do it. Castiel did.” 

“How do you know that?”

“Because Castiel told me.” 

“Hmm.” She lapsed into silence for a few minutes, and Sam thought perhaps she’d fallen asleep, but then she spoke again. “Well. That’s odd.”

“Why do you say that?” 

“He just doesn’t strike me as the type.”

“Charm isn’t a guarantee of anything. Some of the worst serial killers had that,” Sam pointed out. 

“It’s not charm, not exactly.”

“Then what is it?” 

“Dunno,” Jess yawned.

“Anyway,” Sam declared, “I talked to Cas after dinner. He promised me he’d turn himself in tomorrow.” 

“What about Dean?”

Sam felt a sense of foreboding. “Dean wasn’t involved. He just made a dumb mistake, running off with Cas. Cas’ll clear that up.” 

“Then what?”

“Dunno. We’ll figure it out, babe.” 

She yawned again. “’Kay. G’night.”

“’Night.” 

Before he drifted off, Ruby popped into Sam’s mind. Guilt flooded him all over again, but he couldn’t tell Jess now, not when he’d convinced her to let two fugitives crash here for a bit.

Besides, the Ruby thing had been almost a month ago. He’d put it off for too long. What could he say for himself after waiting all that time? 

Maybe he didn’t have to tell Jess after all. It had been one little mistake. An egregious one, but still. He loved Jess.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Shiphrah had stubbornly refused to take the bed even though both Castiel and Dean had insisted, so they found themselves bunking down in the guest bedroom once more.

Dean yawned. “How can I be so friggin’ tired? Didn’t I sleep for, what, almost two days?” 

Castiel yawned, too. “You were under the influence of the serum. Perhaps that wasn’t real sleep. I know why I’m tired.” He smiled up at Dean even though he knew Dean probably couldn’t see him in the dark. “I watched over you.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Dean replied with solemnity. 

“But I wanted to.”

He heard Dean shifting on the bed. “Why don’t cha come up here with me, Cas?” 

Castiel longed to scoop Dean into his arms, to nuzzle his neck. But that wouldn’t be wise, he thought. “I wouldn’t want to make Sam uncomfortable,” he answered.

“Screw Sam. C’mon.” 

“No, Dean. I’m sorry.”

More rustling from Dean’s bed. “Fine. Have it your way,” he grumbled. 

Soon, Dean’s breath evened out, indicating he’d fallen asleep. Castiel closed his eyes, but despite his tiredness, he remained awake.

In his mind, Castiel replayed the evening’s earlier conversation when Sam had cornered him in the guest bedroom. 

“Are ya gonna keep your word?” Sam asked without prelude.

Castiel lowered his eyes, knowing what Sam meant, too ashamed to look him in the face. “Yes.” 

“Then what’re you waiting for?”

Castiel snapped his eyes up to Sam. “You want me to turn myself in _now_?” 

“Why not?”

“Just—” Castiel licked his lips nervously. “—let me tell Dean first. Please. Then I will go. I swear it.” 

“Fine. When I get home from work tomorrow, you’ll be gone. Capisce?”

“I capisce.” 

Turning himself in would hurt Dean, but it was for the best. It was what he should have done in the first place.

xxxxxxxxxx 

When Cas shuffled into the kitchen, Dean was already there eating a bowl of cereal. An hour ago, he’d told Sam, Jess, and Mariana bye when they’d left. Now, Cas poured himself a cup of coffee and joined Dean at the table. His eyes were bloodshot, almost as if he hadn’t slept at all.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean inquired. 

Cas nodded, but something in his manner seemed uncertain. “I just need some coffee,” he claimed.

As they sipped their coffee and finished their cereal, they sat in companionable silence. Shiphrah was still asleep, apparently. What was with that girl, anyway? Whatever. Cas had told him she wanted to escape, and Dean was all for helping anyone leave that hellhole. 

After breakfast, they reclined on the porch swing, Dean throwing an arm around Cas’s shoulders, both of them closing their eyes and just _being_. Together. Eventually, Cas stated, “I have something to tell you, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes popped open, and he gazed down at him. “Yes, angel?” 

Cas flushed. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that. I’m no angel.”

“You are to me, babe.” 

Cas worried his bottom lip, the motion drawing Dean’s eyes straight to it. To both lips. And oh, it had been so _long_ since he’d tasted those, tasted Cas, and he couldn’t resist smashing his lips against Cas’s, ravaging the familiar crevices of Cas’s mouth with his tongue.

“Dean,” Cas said, his voice extra-gravelly, setting Dean’s groin afire. He rested his hand on the journal laying on his lap before sliding it toward Dean. “You should read this.” 

Dean frowned and idly flipped the pages. “What is it?”

“Samandriel’s journal.” 

“Who’s Samandriel? One of those Brethren douche nozzles?”

“Dean.” Wow, Cas sounded slightly pissed. “He died helping us escape.” 

“Oh.” Now he felt like a dick. “How?”

“I don’t know,” Cas mumbled. “He took a serum, the same one I think they may have given you.” 

A shiver coursed through Dean’s spine. “Shit.” Cas leaned his head on Dean’s shoulder as Dean read. The journal’s contents made him queasy. “What the fuck?” he muttered when he turned the last page. He glanced up and saw tears spilling from Cas’s eyes.

“Samandriel. He was just so _sweet_ , Dean. He was the only one who was nice to me. Why would anyone hurt him like that?” 

“They’re a buncha sadistic assholes, that’s why.”

“I can’t help,” Cas sniffed, “feeling as if I am responsible. If I had not gone back to Angel Falls, no doubt Samandriel would be alive and well.” 

“Screw that,” Dean seethed. “You didn’t _go_ to Angel Falls. They fuckin’ kidnapped you. And me.” He waved the journal in the air. “You didn’t do this. They did.” Cas nodded. “Shit. I still can’t believe it. Dick Roman? Really? I always knew that guy was a shady bastard, but this is something else.” He slammed the book onto the swing next to him. “We’ve gotta tell people about this.” Even if they were a couple of damn fugitives, they had to get the word out somehow.

“ _You_ have to, Dean.” 

Dean furrowed his brow. “What?” Cas lowered his eyes, those pretty lashes shadowing them. He had a bad feeling about this. “What is it, Cas? What’s wrong?”

Cas flicked those intense blue eyes up to him, their expression inscrutable. “I am going to turn myself in, Dean.” 

Panic clawed itself up Dean’s throat. “What?! We’ve talked about this a million damn times, Cas!”

“I promised Sam I would.” 

“Fuck that.”

Cas’s eyes grew resolute. “He wanted to leave me in Angel Falls, Dean. He doesn’t want me around, and rightfully so. I killed his father. Your father.” 

“You told him.” _Duh_. Why else would Sam have mentioned it yesterday?

“Yes.” Fuck. _No_. He couldn’t lose Cas when he’d just gotten him back. “I’m sorry, Dean. I love you.” 

“Cas—”

“I will leave at four o’clock. Before Sam arrives home.” 

“No—”

“Dean—” 

“Shut up, Cas!” Dean exclaimed. Cas pressed his lips together and stared at Dean. “Don’t. Just.” He paused as he contemplated his next words. “Let me talk to him first. Okay?” Cas opened his mouth, but Dean asserted, “I don’t wanna hear it. You’re not goin’ anywhere ’til I talk to him. ’Kay?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas sighed. 

xxxxxxxxxx

When Sam walked through the front door after work, he discovered Jess, Mariana, Shiphrah, and Castiel crowded into the living room. His eyes lingered a beat on Castiel before darting to Jess, who raised her eyebrows and shrugged. 

Sam had trusted Castiel to honor his promise, and yet here he was. At least he had the grace to look sheepish as he twisted his hands together self-consciously.

“Sam,” he heard Dean declare from somewhere behind him, “we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sue me, I kind of love the idea of babies being drawn to Cas.
> 
> I think there are maybe two chapters left in addition to an epilogue. It's a little hard for me to tell how long the remaining parts are going to wind up.
> 
> As ever, thanks for reading! Feedback is quite welcome. :)


	13. With All Thy Heart, and With All Thy Soul, and With All Thy Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this chapter much earlier than usual because I'm trying to finish as much of this fic as possible before NaNoWriMo. 
> 
> This chapter contains some of my inexpertly written smut. Rough sex, then almost-sex, then more sex. Of course, there's more than sex in this chapter, too.

Sam turned around to face his brother, their eyes meeting. “Okay,” he replied.

“Alone,” Dean clarified.

Sam eyed the front door, and Dean nodded before following him out to the porch. Sam dumped himself into a lawn chair, and Dean took the swing, his boots idly rocking it. “What’s this about?” Sam asked. 

“Cas,” Dean croaked. “You can’t do this to me. To him.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“Don’t play dumb with me, Sam!” Dean shouted. “You know damn well what I’m talking about. Telling Cas to turn himself in.”

“It was his idea,” Sam asserted. 

“Fuck, don’t I know it,” Dean muttered. More loudly, he said, “I don’t care. You’re the one egging him on.”

“Dean, he _killed_ Dad,” Sam pointed out. “And you just want to let him roam free?” Dean narrowed his eyes, anger radiating off of him in spades. “That doesn’t bother you?” 

“Cas is one of the good guys, Sam. _Him suffering_ —that’s what bothers me.”

So, it was true. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Dean merely glared back at him. “You are.” 

“So what if I am?”

Sam shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Dean’s feelings meant he couldn’t be objective about this. “Do you know he burned the body? That’s pretty disturbing.” 

Dean flinched then whispered, “That was my idea, Sammy.” A haunted look entered his eyes.

“What?” Sam couldn’t believe he’d heard Dean correctly. Castiel had indicated he’d acted alone, but Dean was implying he’d been an accessory. 

“Didn’t you ever bother to wonder _why_?” Dean growled through clenched teeth.

“Why what?” 

“Why Cas killed Dad in the first place.”

Now that Dean brought it up, Sam realized he’d never once thought about motive. He’d just assumed . . . well, Castiel had killed Dad, and that was enough. That made him a murderer, and he had to do penance for his crime. 

“He did it for me, Sammy,” Dean said, his tone uncharacteristically subdued.

“Huh?” Sam was completely lost now. 

“It was an accident,” Dean continued. “It’s a long story . . . ” His voice trailed off into a mirthless laugh.

“Tell me, Dean,” Sam encouraged. “Help me understand.” 

Dean directed his eyes at the ground. “Well. It was one fucked-up day.” He emitted another bitter laugh. “I won’t go into all the sappy parts, but the basic thing is that Cas broke up with me. So, anyway. I was at work, and I kept messing up shit, so Bobby asked what was wrong. The thing with Cas, it slipped out . . . and then suddenly Dad was there. When he left, I knew he was going to Cas’s, so that’s where I went.

“He was going to kill Cas, Sammy. He was convinced Cas was the demon. You know, the one he always said killed Mom?” 

A queasy feeling crept into him. “So, what? He killed Dad in self-defense?”

Dean’s eyes bounced up to Sam then somewhere to the left of him. “Not exactly. I stopped him, but then Dad, I—I think he was going to kill me. He had his hands around my neck, squeezing, and I couldn’t breathe . . . he was so _angry_ , and he called me a traitor.” He shuddered. “Then Cas—it was an accident. He saved me, Sam.” 

Sam still had no sympathy for Castiel. “He couldn’t find some way to do it that didn’t involve killing Dad?”

“He didn’t mean to,” Dean insisted. “You should’ve seen how shattered he was. He was going to turn himself in then, but I wouldn’t let him. I _wanted_ to flee with him, Sam. I wanted to be with him. Want to be with him.” 

Dean was definitely blinded by his misguided love. “That doesn’t make it right. He needs to turn himself in, Dean. _That’s_ what’s right.”

“Screw what’s right.” 

“Not a good attitude, Dean,” Sam warned.

“I don’t fuckin’ care!” Dean blustered. “Cas can’t spend the rest of his life rotting in prison!” 

“Well, that’s what happens when you kill someone.”

Dean pressed his lips into a determined straight line. After a moment, he avowed, “If Cas turns himself in, so do I.” 

“What?” Sam spluttered. “But Dean, you didn’t kill—”

“I’m an accomplice,” Dean observed. “If Cas deserves to be punished for what happened, then so do I.” 

Sam felt as if his heart would burst. No. He’d just reconnected with Dean after mostly ignoring him for nine years, and because of his stupid feelings for Castiel, Dean would snatch that away from him.  

“No, Dean. You can’t.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “I can do whatever I want.” 

“No.” He paused before huffing, “Fine. No one’s turning themselves in.”

“Oh, so it’s okay if I get to, as you put it, ‘roam free,’ but not Cas? If it keeps me free, then Cas can be free, too?” 

“Dammit, Dean!”

“You’re a fuckin’ hypocrite, you know that?” 

“Maybe,” Sam acknowledged. “But. Okay. You do realize you guys are going to be fugitives forever, right?” Dean nodded. “Life will be hard.”

“I know.” 

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Listen. I’ll try to think of something that can help.”

“Okay.” Dean sighed in relief. “Thanks, Sammy.” 

Sam still wasn’t convinced Castiel should remain scot free. If he could find some way to distract Dean while Castiel turned himself in . . . Castiel would take full responsibility for John Winchester’s death. Okay, perhaps Dean had broken the law by helping Castiel dispose of the body, but he didn’t deserve to be punished for his foolishness. He hadn’t _killed_ anyone as Castiel had. If Dean found his way to the police after Castiel confessed, Sam could explain the situation, illustrate that Dean’s implication of himself stemmed from love.

xxxxxxxxxx 

A scream pierced Sam’s sleep, jerking him awake. He lay there for another second, but heard no other sound. Jess was still sleeping peacefully. Sam rubbed his eyes and told himself he’d been dreaming, but a part of him didn’t believe that, so he stumbled out of his room and down the hallway, pausing at the door to the guest bedroom. Faint sounds emanated from inside, and in order to ascertain what was up, Sam cracked the door open and peered inside. Dean was trembling, and Castiel climbed into the bed next to him, resting on his knees. 

Castiel clasped Dean’s shoulder with one hand and smoothed the other one up and down Dean’s back, establishing a rhythm. “It’s okay, Dean. It was just a nightmare.”

“Not just a nightmare,” Dean rasped. “Cas. She made me kill you so many times.” 

“Naomi.”

“Yeah.” 

“It’s all right, Dean. I’m here. I’m not dead.”

Dean clutched at Castiel’s shirtsleeves with both hands. “Thank God.” He buried his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck. 

Sam closed the door, not wanting to intrude any further. He didn’t know what the hell Dean had been talking about, but his anguish told Sam one thing.

Dean _needed_ Castiel. 

And he couldn’t rip Dean apart like that.

He’d have to think of something to ease their situation as fugitives. He couldn’t shelter them forever. 

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel continued to run a hand over Dean’s back as Dean nosed into his neck. Dean’s tears prickled his skin, and his own dropped onto Dean’s hair. He moved the hand from Dean’s back and waved it through his soft hair. 

Dean pulled his head back, and Castiel kissed the corners of his eyes. “We’re okay?”

“Yeah.” His shaking body belied him, though. Castiel held him close. 

“Do you think you can go back to sleep?” Castiel muttered against Dean’s neck before softly brushing it with his lips.

“I can try,” Dean laughed as he settled back on the mattress.

Castiel kept his hands wrapped around Dean’s body and lay down next to him. “I’m with you.”

“What about Sam?” Dean countered acidly. 

“As you so eloquently put it last night. Screw him.”

“I’d rather not.” Castiel snorted.

Castiel kissed Dean’s temple and whispered into his ear, “Go to sleep. I’m here.”

Dean snuggled against Castiel and laid his head on Castiel’s shoulder. “Mmm. My favorite pillow,” he murmured. Castiel grinned to himself and closed his eyes. 

Wrath blazed in his heart.

He hadn’t known much about the nature of Dean’s hallucinations with the Brethren, and he still didn’t. But now he knew they’d involved more than physically hurting Dean. They’d almost completely broken him, and they’d used Castiel to do it. He couldn’t imagine what Dean had gone through. If he’d been forced to kill Dean . . . the thought was too horrifying to contemplate. 

Castiel ground his teeth with rage. He remembered something Dean had said to him in Las Vegas, that he wanted to kill the Brethren for what they’d done to Castiel.

Castiel understood. 

Because of what they’d done to Dean (and Samandriel, for that matter), he wanted to burn the place to the ground. He wanted to watch the Elders suffer, especially Naomi. And Zachariah. He’d relish the opportunity to torture them and laugh at their screams.

The depth and intensity of these dark desires frightened him. 

But they would be able to bring the Brethren down, thanks to Samandriel. Castiel prayed for the young man’s soul. He hoped Samandriel was in heaven, where he belonged.

xxxxxxxxxx 

When Sam got home from work, he, Castiel, and Dean gathered around the dining table. He prepared to relay the plan he’d come up with. 

“So, I think I know what to do about your, ah, situation,” Sam began, his eyes darting nervously between the couple who sat across the table from him. “You guys can’t be fugitives forever.” 

“You gonna help us escape abroad, Sammy?” Dean inserted with cheekiness. Sam was annoyed, but he knew Dean’s tone masked a bottomless worry lying underneath.

“No,” Sam replied, treating the remark as if it were serious. After all, he saw how it could seem like the only option. “We’d need fake IDs and stuff, and we don’t have resources like that.” 

“I can still turn myself in,” Castiel supplied.

Dean clasped him lightly on the shoulder. “Not an option, hoss.” 

“Actually,” Sam interjected, “it is. That’s the answer. He turns himself in, and so do you.”

Dean withdrew his hand from Castiel’s shoulder and directed a cold gaze at Sam. “Gee, thanks for throwing us under the bus, Sam.” 

“There’s more to it than that,” Sam continued. “I’ve been thinking.—”

“That’s a first,” Dean muttered. Castiel gave him a reproachful look, and Dean stared back, all faux innocence. 

“What were you thinking, Sam?” Castiel prompted.

“There’s really no evidence against you guys,” Sam answered. “It’s all circumstantial. There’s nothing that actually _proves_ either of you is guilty.” 

Castiel frowned. “But I am guilty.”

“The courts don’t have to know that.” 

“You want us to commit perjury?” Castiel sounded puzzled.

Sam reddened. “No. Um. Maybe?” 

“We skipped town,” Dean pointed out. “If that doesn’t scream ‘guilty,’ I don’t know what does.”

“It does look suspicious,” Sam admitted. “But it’s not solid proof. There’s still room for reasonable doubt.”

“The rumors, Dean,” Castiel said. 

Sam could practically see the gears turning in Dean’s head. “Oh, yeah. That’s right!”

“What rumors?” Sam inquired. 

Castiel and Dean blushed and glanced at each other as if to say, _You tell him. No, you. No, you! No, you._ Castiel sighed then explained, “The day of, ah, John Winchester’s death . . . rumors started going around town. Of me.” He suddenly found something interesting to study on the table. “Being a homosexual.”

“Those bastards,” Dean mumbled as he picked at the edge of the table. 

What was Dean talking about? Whatever. He did realize one thing, though. “I see. So you’re saying you could’ve fled town because of the rumors.” Castiel nodded.

Dean threw an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. “And of course he couldn’t leave without his gay lover.” He spoke with forced jocularity. 

“Hmm. That could work.”

Castiel chewed his lip. “But I am still guilty, no matter what the law says. This plan is wrong.” 

Dean massaged Castiel’s neck. “No, love,” he said softly. “If you deserve to go to prison, then so does the whole damn world.” Castiel sighed, and his eyes watered as he leaned back into Dean’s touch, almost as if he needed Dean’s support to remain upright.

Dean’s eyes flew to Sam, their expression daring him to say something about what he’d just witnessed. Sam shifted in his seat uncomfortably; he felt as if he’d just intruded on an intimate moment. 

For his part, Sam was inclined to agree with Castiel; no matter the circumstances, he’d killed Dad, and that made him guilty. But Dean was right, perhaps; maybe Castiel shouldn’t be punished for it. Not just because he couldn’t deprive Dean of Castiel, though that was a major factor. But from what he’d seen of Castiel, he didn’t seem like a vicious murderer. He was gentle and caring. Brave, even. And could a bad person love someone as much as Castiel loved Dean? Sam didn’t think so. Hell, he even seemed to be growing on Jess.

Sam cleared his throat, and the other two gave him their full attention, though Dean continued to stroke Castiel’s neck. “Anyway. This is what I was thinking. You turn yourselves in, and of course there’s a trial and all that. I’ll work with your lawyer. Maybe I could even be your lawyer, but I’m not sure if having your brother as your lawyer would help your cause. They might think I’m too biased to be credible. 

“So, if we work this right, you guys could be acquitted. It’s risky, but if we win, you won’t be fugitives anymore.” Sam swallowed. “What do you think?”

“It is an intriguing proposition,” Castiel opined. He shifted his eyes to the elder Winchester. “Dean?” 

Dean propped his free hand on his chin and scratched at his stubble as he thought. Finally, he conceded, “It might be our best shot.”

Castiel’s smile accentuated his handsomeness. “Yes. I agree.” 

“We’ll do it,” Dean concluded. He stood up and stretched. “So, what, now we just go down to the police station?”

“No,” Sam replied. “I think we should go to Kansas.” 

“Why?”

“They’re just gonna send you there anyway, right? And I wanna be there to talk to Sheriff Mills. And to support you.” His eyes moved from Dean to Castiel and back again. “Both of you.” This admission startled him. He still resented Castiel for what had happened, but there was something about the man, and Sam couldn’t help liking him at least a little. 

“Okay.” Dean’s grin reached his eyes. “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, touched by Dean’s earnestness. “Anytime.” 

xxxxxxxxxx

That night, as they prepared for bed, Sam told Jess about his plan for Dean and Castiel, and she insisted on accompanying them to Kansas. “And don’t you dare say no this time,” she warned, her arms crossed over her chest and her expression resolute. “You already went there once by yourself. You went to Angel Falls by yourself. I’m a part of this damn family, which means I deserve to be a part of this, too.” 

“But what about Mariana?” Sam objected. He didn’t think it would be prudent to bring her along. Driving for hours with an infant? Not the best idea.

“Don’t even use that as an excuse,” she snapped. “Shiphrah can take care of her.” 

“A sixteen-year-old girl you don’t even know?”

“That’s what you get when you hire a babysitter, isn’t it?” 

“But we don’t hire babysitters to look after her overnight.”

Jess sighed with frustration. “We drop her off at daycare all the time. We don’t really know those people, do we?” Sam opened his mouth, but one look from Jess, and he shut it without saying anything. “Shiphrah seems like a good girl. Responsible. I think we can trust her with Mariana for a couple of days.” 

“Okay,” Sam mumbled.

“Great.” She slipped under the bedcovers. “Now let’s get some sleep. We’ve got a long drive tomorrow, don’t we?”

xxxxxxxxxx 

They left early in the morning, taking two separate cars. Dean ached to drive his baby again, but Sam claimed it would be too cramped with four people. Dean didn’t know what the fuck Sam was bitching about; four people could fit into the Impala just fine. But if he wanted to waste money on gas, that was his business. So Sam and Jess rode in Sam’s car, and Cas rode with Dean.

Whatever. Dean preferred this arrangement, anyway. He wouldn’t have to censor himself around Cas, and he could listen to the music he liked. He didn’t know what type of music Jess enjoyed, and he didn’t know her well enough to force her to listen to his music if it got on her nerves. Cas was every driver’s fuckin’ dream passenger, though. He never complained about Dean’s music. 

They stopped at a Holiday Inn in Rawlins, Wyoming, for the night, snagging rooms next to each other on the second floor.

“We’re alone. ’Bout damn time,” Dean announced after he closed the door behind Cas and himself. He shoved Cas onto the king-sized bed and planted a knee on each side of Cas’s legs. “The things I’m gonna do to you,” he leered. A spark of lust entered Cas’s eyes, and it was for Dean, always for him, and that turned Dean on so freakin’ hard. He peeled Cas’s shirt off, revealing that “x” branded on his chest. And long scars on his forearms. He traced one of them with his index finger. “Where’d this come from?” 

Cas’s lips quirked into an ironic grin. “I tried to kill myself with a fork.”

Dean wanted to slap that look off his face; that shit wasn’t funny. “What? When? Why?” Dean slurred, his voice filled with concern. 

“When we were with the Brethren. I thought . . . I thought that maybe they would stop torturing you if I was dead.”

Fuck. Cas was gonna _kill himself_ for Dean? His heart panged. Cas must’ve dug in deep if he’d made such vivid marks with a fork. “Cas . . . ” he whimpered. 

Cas covered the hand Dean had allowed to linger on Cas’s arm. “It’s okay, Dean. That’s all over now.”

“Yeah,” Dean sniffed as he cleared his eyes. “Let’s get back to the fucking.” He planted his lips on Cas’s, sucking hungrily, their tongues waging a fierce battle. “It’s been too damn long,” he muttered when he pulled back to catch his breath. 

“Yes,” Cas agreed, framing Dean’s face with his hands. He caressed Dean’s cheek, and Dean melted into the touch. Cas unbuttoned Dean’s shirt gingerly then tossed it onto the floor atop his. Their mouths met again, teeth clashing, both greedy for each other. Dean pinned Cas down onto the bed, his hands firmly gripping Cas’s wrists. Dean released him, but Cas stayed situated as he was. Without ceremony, Dean pried off Cas’s shoes and socks then his own. He ripped his belt from his jeans and tied Cas’s wrists together with it.

“Dean, what’re you doing?” Cas asked before emitting a nerve-tinged laugh. 

“Trying something new,” Dean answered. “If that’s okay?” Cas nodded, a wild glint in his eyes. Dean recalled the priest he’d met in October. That guy would’ve _never_ permitted him to do something like this. He’d changed dramatically.

Dean bit into the side of Cas’s neck and sucked on it, feeling Cas’s contented sigh. His lips brushed up Cas’s cheek to the corner of his eye then his hairline. Dean stroked Cas’s hair, relishing the feel of the soft curls underneath his palm. He slowly licked down from the hairline to the “x” over Cas’s heart before reaching the belly button and lapping at it. He felt Cas’s body relax underneath his tongue and lips. 

He unbuttoned Cas’s jeans then yanked them downward, then did the same with his boxers. Cas gasped when Dean pressed his lips to the tip of his cock. Dean kissed a trail up to Cas’s neck. Damn, Dean couldn’t wait to pound him into the mattress. He rose to his knees and scanned the floor until he spotted his duffel bag. He was about to go find the lube when Cas interjected, “Don’t.”

“What?” Dean muttered. 

Cas’s eyes bore into his, so damn _intense_. “Don’t use the lube. I want you. Just you.”

Surely Cas didn’t know what he was proposing. “It’ll hurt like a mother,” he warned. 

“I want it to hurt.” That gravelly voice . . . _damn_.

Dean rubbed a hand over Cas’s dick and toward his ass, pushing a finger inside. Cas moaned but pulled back. “I don’t want that, either,” he said. “Just this.” His hand fluttered over the jeans above Dean’s dick, and Dean shivered. 

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,” Dean objected once Cas let go. “We haven’t done this in, like, a month. It’s already risky enough without the lube. It’ll be rough. You’ll bleed.”

Cas rubbed himself against Dean’s jeans, and his cock twitched, aching to spring free. “I want it rough.”

Dean didn’t know why Cas was so feral all of a sudden, but _hot damn_. He couldn’t resist that sexy voice. He drew off his pants and boxers and threw them somewhere to the side. He pressed his body against Cas’s, skin to skin, loving the feel of it. He bit Cas’s lips, producing a groan. He flipped Cas over and positioned his cock at Cas’s entrance. His tongue brushed Cas’s ear as he whispered, “Let me know if you want me to stop, angel. If it’s too much.” 

Cas shuddered underneath him. “Do it, Dean,” he breathed.

Dean positioned his feet to either side of Cas and planted his hands on Cas’s shoulders before thrusting inside Cas. Cas screamed, and Dean massaged his back with one hand before replacing it on his shoulder. “You all right?” he mumbled. 

“Yes, Dean. Move.”

Dean didn’t want to hurt Cas too much, and he didn’t want to make Cas bleed if he could help it, so he started slow. But Cas pushed back insistently, silently urging Dean to go faster. Dean obliged, knowing that his increasing speed tore at Cas’s insides, but Cas kept begging for more; then Dean couldn’t stop, the slap of skin intoxicating, as was the feeling of Cas taking him deeper, and before he knew it, he came with a throaty moan. He collapsed against Cas and sucked a hickey onto his throat. “You okay?” Dean ventured as he pulled out. 

Cas chuckled. “That was amazing. You’ll have to let me do that to you sometime.”

Dean turned Cas onto his back and twirled a strand of Cas’s hair. “You can do that to me all you want,” he murmured, “once we’re free men.” 

“We might never be free men,” Cas pointed out.

Dean knew that quite well, but still. No need to be pessimistic. “Don’t talk like that.” He lowered his gaze to Cas’s ass, and sure enough, there was blood. He lapped it up with his tongue, and Cas sighed with pleasure. Dean wound up swallowing some of his own cum with it, which was a little disturbing, but he didn’t want to leave the bed to find a rag.

When he was finished, he wrapped his lips around Cas’s cock and muttered around it, “Let me take care of you.” Dean slathered his tongue up and down Cas’s dick, and Cas fucked into his mouth. Dean wasn’t completely ready when Cas’s whole dick wound up in his mouth, but he didn’t spit it out, deep throating it as best he could. 

Which was apparently enough for Cas. “ _Dean!_ ” he hissed; then he was coming a second later. Dean swallowed everything, though he narrowly avoided choking.

“God!” Cas exclaimed at one point as he spilled into Dean. 

Dean slid his lips off of Cas’s dick and smiled mischievously. ‘Did I just hear you take the Lord’s name in vain?” he teased.

Cas snorted as he reclined onto the mattress. “No doubt that is the least of my sins.” 

Though Cas had spoken in jest, his utterance saddened Dean. He knew Cas didn’t understand how good he truly was. He stole a deep kiss from Cas, and Cas tried to grasp Dean’s shoulders before he was foiled by the fact that his hands were bound. “Can you take this off?” he questioned, sounding a little too impatient.

“Nuh uh,” Dean replied. “I think I should leave it there all night.” 

“ _Dean!_ ” Cas cried.

“All right. Quit yer whinin’.” Dean undid the belt and hurled it off the bed. He wound an arm around Cas’s shoulders and pulled him close. 

“We should probably take a shower,” Cas observed.

“Nah. I’m too damn comfortable.” 

Cas curled himself against Dean. “I am comfortable as well.”

“The shower can wait until morning.” 

Cas yawned and closed his eyes. “Good night, Dean.”

“’Night, Cas.” 

“I love you,” Cas whispered.

“Love ya, too, babe.” Dean massaged Cas’s temple with the nubs of two fingers, and soon they were both lulled into sleep. 

xxxxxxxxxx

Sam heard a scream from the next room, followed by repeated squeaks from the mattress and alternating grunts. It was obvious what was going on in there, and Sam flushed. “Why do they have to be so loud?” he grumbled. “Don’t they mind that the whole place can hear them?” 

Jess joined him on the bed, a curious sparkle in her eye. She raised her brows and suggested, “Why don’t we give them a run for their money.” She pressed her lips to his, and Sam savored the heavenly taste of _Jess_. He pushed into her mouth, and she pushed into his, their tongues melding. He raised his arms, and she tugged his shirt off; then her hands were on his biceps, guiding him downward. He lay back and relaxed while Jess straddled him. She unbuttoned her blouse slowly, and _damn_ this was taking forever, but when he reached out to help, she swatted his hands away and continued the striptease. Sam was rock hard now, and when Jess’s boobs spilled free, it was almost painful.

Still, no need to skip over delicacies and get straight to the fucking. He enclosed his lips around a nipple, biting, licking, and sucking. 

“Sam,” Jess gasped as she arched her back, her eyes closing as she pushed her breasts upward. Sam moaned, and his moist lips traced a path from one breast to the other, which he attended to just as assiduously as he had the first. Afterward, he buried his face in her bosom, inhaling her sweet scent. He placed a hand on his belt, preparing to undo it when—

“No. Let me,” Jess protested as she shoved his hand away. She undid his belt and tossed it aside. Her deft fingers popped open the button of his jeans and slowly drew down the zipper. With one fluid motion, his pants were gone. She planted another rough kiss on his lips and shoved into his mouth, their groans mingling in the air. She yanked his boxers down, and _finally_ , he was free. Her fingers traced lines on his thighs, and yeah, just like _that_ — 

“Sam. What are these?” Jess asked as she withdrew her fingers.

He rolled his eyes downward to see what she was referring to and _shit_ — 

Freakin’ Ruby. The cuts on his thighs, their foolish reenactment of high school days.

Her eyes were so earnest, so concerned. He could lie, but no. He should’ve told her a long time ago. He would’ve, if he weren’t such a coward. 

“Um—” he stalled.

“Yes?” 

He sat up straight and began, “Remember that weird girlfriend from high school I told you about? You know, with the blood drinking and—”

The color drained from her face. “No, Sam. You didn’t.” 

“Yeah.” Tears poured in rivulets down her cheeks, and it slashed his heart, especially because _he_ was the cause. “It didn’t mean anything—”

A blow stung his cheek, and it took him a second to realize Jess had slapped him. He deserved it, of course. She drew her knees to her chest, covering her bare torso, enclosing her arms around them. “Why?” she breathed. 

“I told you, it didn’t mean anything.”

“What did I ever do to you?” 

“Nothing. I’m sorry. I—ah—”

“All this time,” she hiccuped. She laughed bitterly. “And here I was thinking _I_ was the problem—” 

“You were never the problem.—”

“Damn right.” She stood up, grabbed her pajamas, and retreated to the bathroom. She returned ten minutes later and stretched out on the armchair, crossing her arms. “I’m sleeping here.”

“No, Jess, you can have the bed,” Sam objected. He made to get up, but she glared at him.

“Don’t play the damn hero,” she hissed. “You’re staying over there.” 

Neither of them slept that night. Every time Sam chanced a glance at her, she stared back with quiet rage.

xxxxxxxxxx 

When Castiel’s eyes slipped open, Dean was still asleep. He didn’t want to disturb Dean, so he left him alone and headed toward the bathroom, where he relieved himself. He contemplated taking a shower, but no, not yet. Instead, he dug around in Dean’s bag until he found the bottle of lube. He was still sore from last night, his insides retaining a faint burn, but he treasured the feel of it. Dean had left his mark, and before they faced their fate in Kansas, Castiel would leave his. 

The bed dipped below him as he climbed back onto it. He stretched out his form, propped his cheek on one hand, and studied Dean. His sleep was peaceful, his whole body sprawled out. His eyelashes curled delicately against his cheeks, freckles dotting his face so prettily. _Pretty_ —Dean would kill him if he told him that, and Castiel smiled at the thought. In repose, Dean looked tranquil, almost soft—the complete opposite of the image he projected when awake. But Castiel knew that Dean’s mask was a protective mechanism for the fragility and beauty underneath.

Dean’s hair was tousled, charmingly so. 

His eyes suddenly flew open, their brilliant green-flecked hazel meeting Castiel’s own orbs. “’Mornin’, Cas,” he mumbled.

Castiel’s grin widened. “Good morning, Dean.” He punctuated the remark with a peck on the lips. 

Dean encircled Castiel’s wrist with one hand. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

Castiel held up the lube. “Once more before we go?” He cast his eyes downward. “In case . . . in case we never have another chance.” 

“Don’t talk like that, Cas,” Dean replied.

But Castiel wasn’t as optimistic about their plan as Sam seemed to be, or as Dean pretended to be. There was a distinct possibility that both he and Dean would spend the rest of their lives in prison. He could easily prevent that from happening to Dean, but he’d agreed to this plan. He knew Dean could never live with that, anyway, though he’d tried to convince Dean to allow it. 

Dean reached for the lube, but Castiel said, “No. My turn.”

He pressed a tender kiss to Dean’s lips, and his tongue leisurely explored the interior of Dean’s mouth. He smoothed his hands over every inch of Dean’s skin, savoring the feel of it, peppering kisses on the crooks of his elbows, his wrists, his palms, his knuckles, his fingertips. His ankles, the backs of his knees, the creases at the top of his thighs. Dean moaned when Castiel brushed his lips over Dean’s penis. He slathered the lube over his fingers and inserted one into his butt, his movement languorous. Then two, then three, then four. He coated his member with the lube and slotted himself into Dean. Their eyes stayed glued to each other, the love shining in Dean’s mirroring what Castiel knew was in his own. 

All the while, Castiel caressed his lover’s skin, his hands worshipping at the altar of Dean Winchester. One more time. Just in case.

Adoration. This was the only church that mattered to him now. 

Whereas last night’s ceremony had been filled with primal energy, this one was gentle. With every touch, every kiss, every thrust, Castiel professed his love.

xxxxxxxxxx

After they fucked, they showered. Dean urged Cas to join him (which he hoped would lead to more sexual activity), but Cas was more practical, saying they should get clean and head downstairs before the free breakfast ended. 

When they arrived downstairs, Jess and Sam were already there. Jess looked hella pissed, and Sam looked impatient. Well excuse _him_ if he wasn’t in a damn hurry to go to jail. He and Cas made Belgian waffles and joined the other two at the table.

“Hurry up,” Sam commanded. “We need to go.” He tapped his foot on the ground with irritation. 

Dean would take his sweet little time, thank you very much.

Jess turned to Sam and declared in a clipped tone, “Why don’t you go ahead? I’m riding with Dean and Castiel.” One look at her face, and it was clear she would tolerate no opposition.

“Okay. Fine,” Sam sighed. He stood up and kissed Jess on the cheek, but she scowled at him in response.

Dean bit into his waffle. What the fuck was that all about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter comes from Matthew 22:37-40 in the King James Version of the Bible: 
> 
> "Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets."
> 
> There's one more chapter then an epilogue left.--I'm pretty sure of that now. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'd love to know what you think. Thanks for reading!


	14. Judgment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no Dean POV in this chapter. He is an active participant in the proceedings, though.
> 
> Again, I'm trying to finish this fic so I can work on my NaNo novel, which is why I'm posting this chapter so soon after the other one.

When the Impala was almost out of gas, Dean pulled into a gas station. While he pumped the gas, Castiel and Jessica ventured into the station for a bathroom break. Dean did the same after filling his car with gas, and Castiel lingered in the aisles while Dean was in the bathroom. He was waiting for Jessica, who had been inside the restroom for a long time. She tried to conceal it, but Castiel sensed that she was deeply distraught. 

A familiar hand clasped him on the shoulder. “You comin’?” Castiel eyed the items in Dean’s hands dubiously. A forty-four ounce soda and a giant package of beef jerky.

“You go ahead,” Castiel replied. “I’m still looking.” 

Dean shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Castiel grabbed a bottle of water and headed toward the checkout, near which were several stacks of newspapers, including _The New York Times_. Castiel picked up a copy; it would give him something to do in the car. After paying for the goods, Castiel stepped outside and leaned against the wall somewhere off to the side. A few minutes later, Jessica exited, her eyes red. 

“Jessica. Are you all right?” Castiel asked. She jumped at his voice and turned to him, blushing.

“Yes. No.” Her face crumpled. 

She and Sam had obviously had a fight; the tension between them this morning had been palpable. “What did Sam do?” he inquired.

“He—he—how could he do it?” Castiel frowned. “With one of his high school girlfriends. Ruby, I think her name was.” 

Castiel froze. “He had sex with Ruby Demme?”

Jessica nodded. “How could he?” she sobbed. “I thought he loved me.” She dabbed at her eyes with a paper towel she’d swiped from the restroom. 

“He does,” Castiel assured her. Because it was the truth. “He loves you very much.”

“Why do you say that?” 

“Because he looks at you the same way Dean looks at me.”

Jessica blew her nose. “Maybe so. But if you think I’m forgiving and forgetting just like that—” 

“You shouldn’t. I just thought it was relevant.”

After a minute, Jessica said, “Can I ask you something?” 

Castiel smiled at her. “Yes.”

“Did you . . . did you really kill John Winchester?” 

“Yes.”

“I’m finding that hard to believe.” 

“It was an accident,” Castiel acknowledged, flushing. “John Winchester . . . well, I thought he was going to kill Dean, and I—”

Jessica held up a hand. “What a minute. _What?_ ” 

“It is difficult to explain what happened that day. John Winchester was raving about a demon he believed killed his wife, and he thought it was me, and then Dean saved my life, and then he was strangling Dean—”

“That sounds like self-defense,” Jessica spluttered. “Why aren’t you guys arguing that? It makes more sense than Sam’s plan.” 

Castiel remembered Dean’s words to him on that fateful April day. “That’s what I said in the beginning, but Dean thought we wouldn’t be believed.”

“That was your best shot!” 

“Perhaps,” Castiel sighed. “But I think it may be too late now. We did run, after all.”

“I see.” 

 “Come on. We should get back to the car before Dean thinks something has happened to us.” A weak laugh escaped Jessica’s lips.

“What took you guys so damn long?” Dean muttered. Jessica and Castiel exchanged a look and smiled. Dean rolled his eyes and switched on the ignition. 

Castiel opened his newspaper and read the top news stories. When he reached the middle of the first section, he did a double take.

Two photographs. The first showed Father Raphael and Father Michael handcuffed and in prison jumpsuits. 

“Dean, look!” he exclaimed, shoving the paper in front of Dean.

Dean weaved into the other lane and narrowly missed hitting a semi, swerving out of the way at the last moment. “What the hell, Cas?” he groused. 

In the backseat, Jessica had fallen into a doze, and now she slurred, “What was that?”

“Nothin’,” Dean answered, his tone slightly miffed. “Everything’s fine.” 

Castiel glanced at the other picture, which depicted a rather smarmy Father Gabriel Goodwin. Apparently, the Vatican had commissioned Father Gabriel to look into the allegations against Father Raphael and Father Michael. A surprising choice. Castiel had met him at a couple of conferences, and he had seemed good though quite unconventional. Maybe unconventional was just what the Church needed, Castiel reflected.

In his investigation, Father Gabriel had discovered incriminating photos taken by Father Raphael. Castiel’s stomach churned. When confronted with the photos, Father Raphael had still proclaimed his innocence, but Father Michael had confessed to everything. Maybe he’d just gotten tired of lying, Castiel hypothesized. Father Gabriel had decided the best course of action would be to let the secular judicial system take its course. He’d also initiated the procedure for defrocking the two priests as well as Castiel himself. There were outstanding warrants for his arrest and for Dean, too, in connection with the death of John Winchester. 

The misconduct of all three priests at St. Francis’s had drawn national attention to the Kansas town. At the moment, Father Gabriel was conducting services there since no one else was available, and he’d been tasked with finding replacements for St. Francis’s, where he’d stay on as the senior-ranking priest.

“Dean, we’re national news,” Castiel observed. Only the last few lines of the article mentioned Dean and Castiel, but there they were nevertheless. 

“What?” Dean mumbled.

Castiel beamed. “But that’s not all. This is mostly about Father Raphael and Father Michael. The Church has ruled against them, and they’re facing charges for their actions.” 

“Fuckin’ A. It’s about time those douchebags got what’s comin’ to them.”

“What’s this you’re talking about?” Jessica asked through a yawn. 

Castiel passed the newspaper back to Jessica. “Oh, wow,” she said a few minutes later.

“A couple of freakin’ bastards, right?” Dean commented. 

“That’s one way of putting it.” She paused then changed the subject. “Do you think you could put some music on? It’s too quiet.”

“Do you mind Metallica?” 

“No. Metallica’s good.”

Dean grinned as he started the cassette. “You’re awesome, Jess.” 

xxxxxxxxxx

They met Sam in the police station’s parking lot. Dean and Castiel followed him into the building, and Jessica brought up the rear. They strolled up to the receptionist, whose eyes widened at their approach. A nameplate indicated her name was Becky Rosen. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, her jaw dropping. “Sheriff!” she yelled. 

“What is it, Becky--?” Sheriff Mills called, but when she came out of her office and saw who stood before her, she abruptly ceased talking. A man followed behind her.

Father Gabriel Goodwin. 

Castiel grabbed Dean’s hand, and Dean squeezed back and offered Castiel a small smile before looking back at Becky, Sheriff Mills, and Father Gabriel. Castiel drew support from the contact with Dean, and he gazed back at Father Gabriel. He wasn’t ashamed of his relationship with Dean, and he didn’t want to hide it. Never again. Dean had been the right choice all along, and he never should’ve wavered.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Father Gabriel gibed. “Father Castiel. Although I suppose I shouldn’t be calling you ‘Father’ anymore.” 

“No,” Castiel affirmed.

Father Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck,” he declared. He stood on his tiptoes and whispered into Castiel’s ear, “God is love, right? I’m rooting for you.” Castiel’s cheeks grew warm as he watched Father Gabriel exit the station. 

“What’d he say?” Dean asked.

“He’s on our side,” Castiel marveled in a soft voice. Father Gabriel had a well-earned reputation of being unorthodox, but Castiel was still stunned that he supported Castiel’s relationship with Dean. Another man. 

“How ’bout that?” Dean murmured.

Sheriff Mills stalked toward them. “Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester. You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you.” 

Dean held out his hands. “Yeah, yeah, we know. Slap ’em on already.”

Sheriff Mills placed handcuffs around Dean’s and Castiel’s wrists and led them to the processing area. The station photographer called for Dean first. 

Dean laughed. “Time for me to give ’em my best blue steel.” Castiel knew the bravado concealed a fear as deep as his own.

Castiel held bated breath when it was time for his mug shot to be taken. He didn’t know where they’d led Dean away to. Afterward, someone handed him an orange jumpsuit, and he almost panicked, the full reality of the situation hitting him—he was _going to jail_. The jumpsuit didn’t have long sleeves, so everyone would be able to see the scars from when he’d tried to kill himself while with the Brethren. 

“What the hell happened to you?” an officer muttered when he came to retrieve Castiel. “What did you and Mr. Winchester get up to?” Castiel supposed the officer was referring to the bandage around Dean’s head. He didn’t answer, electing to merely fidget with the gold cross dangling from his neck. He hoped they would let him keep it.

The officer led him to a cell and locked him inside. From the cell next to his, Dean called, “That you, Cas?” 

“Yes,” Castiel replied.

“Well, look who it is,” Father Raphael sneered from the cell across from Castiel’s. Father Michael occupied the one next to Father Raphael’s. “The most disgusting deviants this town has ever seen.” 

“Who’re you callin’ deviant, _pervert_?” Dean yelled.

“I’m no pervert, _Winchester_.” 

“Oh, give it up,” Father Michael interjected. “The game’s over, Father Raphael.”

xxxxxxxxxx 

After Castiel and Dean had been taken to another room, Jess left, claiming she wanted to explore the town on her own. Sam knew she was just avoiding him, and he didn’t blame her. He needed to fix things with her, but first he had to fix things with Dean. 

“I’m thinking of petitioning for bail,” Sam told Sheriff Mills.

Sheriff Mills advised, “I wouldn’t bother if I were you. Since they’ve already left the state once—” 

“Yeah. Okay.” Sam had known it would be a longshot anyway. “Can I talk to Cas and Dean?”

“Sure.” Becky guided Sam to the visiting room, and Sam waited. 

A few minutes later, Sheriff Mills escorted Dean and Castiel into the room. She sighed and said, “I swear, sometimes. Officer Harris tried to block my way because he’d just locked them in their cells. Anyway. You have fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes? That was all? It was better than nothing, however. “Thank you, Sheriff Mills,” Sam expressed. He appreciated that she’d brought Dean and Castiel herself; it spoke to her dedication. 

It was strange seeing the couple in jailhouse orange. Sam noticed scars on Castiel’s arms. He opened his mouth to ask about them, but he changed his mind when Dean glared at him.

“So, what now, Sam?” Dean prompted. 

Sam placed a hand on his brother’s. “First things first. I’ve got something to tell you. Dean.” Sam felt tears gathering in his eyes, and Dean gazed back with confusion. “I’m sorry. For everything. For the way I’ve treated you all these years, for all the ways I must’ve hurt you. For being ungrateful when you’ve done so much for me. Most of all, for the way I blamed you for Dad. I didn’t know everything he did to you, Dean. Like that burn.—”

“What burn?” Dean laughed nervously. 

“On your shoulder.”

Dean blanched. “How do you know?” 

“I . . . well, that’s not important. I found out right after we left Angel Falls.” Tears were now streaming down Sam’s cheeks. “Point is, Dad did so much to you, and I didn’t know. You must’ve—you protected me from him so much, and I didn’t know. I was a spoiled brat.—”

“You were never a spoiled brat, Sammy.” 

“But I was when it came to you. You were the best brother anyone could ever hope for, and I didn’t even realize it. I love you, and I always have, even when I was being a dick to you.”

“Sam,” Dean sniffled, sounding awed. He smiled through his tears. “All I ever wanted was for you to have a good life. And you do. You’re a damn lawyer, for cryin’ out loud. And you’ve got a badass wife and daughter.” Sam flinched, remembering how much he’d hurt Jess, but Dean didn’t seem to notice. 

Castiel shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and both Dean and Sam turned to him. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I feel like I am intruding.”

“You’re not, Cas,” Sam countered. He didn’t miss the glow on Dean’s face at his use of the nickname. “You’re with Dean, and that makes you a part of this family.” 

“Damn straight,” Dean agreed. A few tears escaped from Castiel’s eyes at the utterance, and man, they were all so emotional. Dean wiped away his tears. “Okay, this is turning into _Steel Magnolias_. Not cool. So. Sam. What’s next for us?”

“They’re gonna appoint a lawyer for you. You guys can get different lawyers or the same one.—” 

“I think we should get the same one. Right, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean.” 

“Anyway,” Sam continued. “I’ll consult with your lawyer and see what I can do to help.”

“How long will this shit take?” asked Dean. 

“It could be over a year,” Sam conceded, unable to meet Dean’s eyes.

“Damn!” 

“Yeah. I know.”

“Thank you for your help, Sam,” Castiel said. 

“You’re welcome. Both of you.”

xxxxxxxxxx 

Throughout their stay in jail, the scars on Castiel’s arms faded, though he thought his skin would always retain a faint trace of them. Both he and Dean had nightmares and it was more difficult than if they’d been alone, at least for Castiel, because he knew Dean was _right there_ in the cell next to his, yet they couldn’t touch.

Dean’s first nightmare happened about a week after Sam and Jessica left town. He was startled awake by Dean’s scream, and in his half-asleep state, he fumbled for Dean until he realized that Dean wasn’t there. 

“Dean,” Castiel called. He heard Dean panting heavily, accompanied by a muffled sob. “Dean, are you all right?”

“’M fine, Cas,” he shouted back. But he sounded terrified. 

“What’s the matter? Tough guy Winchester can’t take a nightmare?” Father Raphael taunted.

“Shut up, Raphael!” Castiel spat. 

“That’s _Father_ Raphael to you!”

“I don’t think either of us has the right to that title anymore.” 

“ _You_ don’t, that’s for sure!”

Castiel ignored him. He could still hear Dean’s stifled sobs. “Dean. Tell me. What was it?” 

“I told you, Cas, ’m fine.”

Castiel knew what this was. Dean wanted to hide his vulnerability from Father Raphael and Father Michael. Dean needed comfort, but he would rather deprive himself of it than let the other ex-priests discover that fact about him. Castiel understood, but being unable to care for him hurt. 

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel’s first nightmare went like this: 

He was back with the Brethren, in the same field where he’d damned Balthazar. He was being restrained by Naomi and Zachariah, and something about the scene seemed all too familiar . . .

Dean held a sword to his throat, but no, this wasn’t Dean, this was— 

“Dameal?” Castiel ventured.

“Who the fuck is Dameal?” Dean jeered. “I’m Dean freakin’ Winchester. And it’s time for you to be damned, Brother Castiel.” This, followed by a maniacal laugh. 

 _No_ , this couldn’t be Dean—

And it wasn’t, for now this creature, or whatever it was, its eyes turned black, and then Castiel knew he was in the presence of a demon who’d somehow poisoned Dean’s body.— 

“No!” Castiel shrieked. “ _No, no, no, no!_ ”

“Cas!” Dean shouted, and this time the voice sounded more like him. 

Now he wasn’t with the Brethren; he was back in his jail cell. “Dean?” he whimpered.

“You all right?” 

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“Nightmare, huh?” 

“Yes.”

“Boohoo, precious baby Castiel had a wittle bad dream,” Raphael jeered. “Get over it. Some of us are trying to sleep.” 

“Shut up, dickhead!” Dean snapped.

Castiel was still shaking from the nightmare. It had seemed so real. 

“Was it those Brethren bastards, Cas?” Dean continued.

“Yes.” The dream had been about Dean, but it was their stay with the Brethren that had sparked it. 

“What’s this ‘Brethren’ you’re talking about?” Raphael cut in.

“None of your damn business, asshole,” Dean retorted. “Cas?” 

“I am fine, Dean. Thank you.”

“Let me know if you need anything.” 

“Like you can do anything from where you are,” Raphael commented.

“Fuck off!” 

Castiel folded into himself and let the tears fall. He didn’t care if the other ex-priests heard.

“Cas,” Dean sighed, and there was no mistaking the love in his voice. “I’m here. I’m with you.” 

Castiel smiled at the words, which echoed his own to Dean back when they’d been in California. “Thank you, Dean. I love you.” He didn’t care what Raphael and Michael thought about his declaration.

“Wow, you really are a degenerate,” Raphael said. 

“Indeed,” Michael agreed.

“Hey, you’re the child molester,” Dean pointed out. 

“Not me,” Michael replied.

“No. You’re the child molester’s aider and abettor. Which is just as shitty.” His voice turned gentler. “Cas, you know how I feel about you.” 

“Yes.” That was Dean’s way of saying “I love you” without speaking the words.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Before he left Kansas, Sam met Dean and Castiel’s court-appointed lawyer, Ash Waterford. Upon first sight, he had been disconcerted. The guy had an outrageous mullet and looked like a truck driver. It seemed the county had scraped the bottom of the barrel for this one. Plus, he’d just learned that the prosecutor would be Victor Henriksen, who had an impressive record.

But “Ash,” as he insisted everyone call him, was smarter than he looked, and Sam returned to California knowing the case was in capable hands. 

Over the next few months, he periodically phoned Ash to receive updates and brainstorm.

Meanwhile, Jess had kicked him out of the house, though she let him come over to visit Mariana. Shiphrah stayed with Jess, and the two seemed to be bonding. He told Dean the whole story about Jess and Ruby, and Dean responded that Sam was an idiot. 

“Ruby? That bitch?”

“Yes, Dean, I know; it was stupid.” 

“It was beyond stupid.”

“I know, I know, no need to rub it in my face.” 

“You better do whatever it takes to get her back. She’s the best catch you’re ever gonna find, Sam.”

Sam agreed, and he wondered how Dean had come to that conclusion during his limited time with Jess. He constantly rendered his apologies, but Jess still shunned him. 

During the months before Dean and Cas’s trial, he also made copies of Samandriel’s journal and sent them to several newspapers and the police. Shiphrah wrote an anonymous account of her time with the Angelic Brethren, and Sam distributed that, too. Once the story broke, Dick Roman resigned his Senate seat, and the public excoriated him for his experiments with mind control. The leaders of the Angelic Brethren were arrested, but the general membership, who hadn’t been aware of the activities engaged in by the Elders and those belonging to the “Next Level,” were free to go and pursue their lives elsewhere. Angel Falls was cordoned off so the federal government could conduct an investigation. Zachariah and Naomi were charged with the murder of Samandriel, and Dick Roman was charged as an accomplice.

After Angel Falls was depopulated, Shiphrah requested Sam’s help in locating a friend named Naarah Chad, but they couldn’t find her. Shiphrah’s concern for her grew as time passed. 

Sam, Jess, Shiphrah, and Mariana flew to Kansas for the trial. Ash had petitioned for the trial to be moved to a neighboring town because its citizens would be more objective, and the motion had been granted. Still, many people from home crowded into the courtroom to watch. Jess and Mariana stayed away from Sam, and Shiphrah kept to herself.

The jury deliberated for a week, and when the day of the verdict came, everyone anticipated the decision. 

“Sam,” someone called from behind him as he was about to sit down. He turned and faced Ruby, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jess tense up on the other side of the room.

“You’re here alone?” Ruby continued. “Whatever happened to being married?” 

Sam held up his ring finger. “Still married.”

“But it’s on the rocks, huh?” she smirked. What gave her the right to sound so smug? Sam didn’t answer, and she grabbed his hand then stroked his cheek with one finger. “Doing anything tonight?” 

Sam snatched his hand away. “Leave me alone.”

She glared at him balefully then shuffled away toward her friend Meg. A second later, Jess approached him, Mariana holding her hand and tottering beside her. “That was her? Ruby?” she said. 

“Yeah.”

“You said no to her.” 

“Yeah.” Damn, she was perceptive. She couldn’t possibly have heard their conversation from where she’d been standing.

“Not interested anymore, huh?” 

“I told you, it meant nothing. It was a mistake. The worst one of my life.” Well, that and the way he’d treated Dean over the years. “I’m sorry for being such an asshole. I love you, Jess.”

She smiled. “I know.” Huh? If she knew, why had she estranged herself from him? He must’ve looked confused, for she laughed. “I couldn’t just let you get away with it, could I?” 

“Definitely not.” He would’ve never wanted that.

She pecked him on the cheek. “I’m not forgetting, but I am forgiving.” 

“Fair enough.”

“If you ever pull something like that again, it’s over between us. I mean it.” 

Her expression left no room for doubt. “Okay.”

She took his hand, and they sat down. Sam surveyed the room and grinned. More people had supported Dean and Cas than they or Sam had ever imagined would. There was Ellen Harvelle, who’d been vocal about her belief in Cas and Dean. Tonight, she was holding a gathering at the Roadhouse, and only Dean and Cas supporters were invited. If the verdict was favorable, they would celebrate. If it wasn’t, then they’d drown their sorrows. 

Next to her was Jo, who was holding Anna’s hand. They were a surprising couple, but they seemed happy.

Bobby was here, of course. Sam had spent a lot of time with him during this trip. Apparently he also socialized with Jess (Sam didn’t know how that’d come about), and he periodically scolded Sam for letting a girl like that slip through his fingers. He’d be happy tonight when Sam and Jess showed up together at the Roadhouse. 

Then there was Father Gabriel Goodwin and his goofy grin. Lisa Braeden and her son Ben. Charlie Bradbury, who’d publicized her support at Haven Comics, and her girlfriend Gilda. Linda Tran and her son Kevin. Even Sheriff Mills, though she hadn’t let the general public know where her sympathies lie. And countless others.

There were even more people who supported the prosecution. Luckily, the decision wasn’t up to them. 

Finally, the judge and jury filed into the courtroom. “All rise!” the judge boomed. Everyone followed suit. “In the case of _People versus Novak and Winchester_ , the jury finds the defendant Castiel Novak ‘not guilty.’” Sam barked a relieved laugh, and a hubbub erupted. The judge banged his gavel and gave the assembly a stern look, and everyone settled down. He read the rest of the verdict. “The jury also finds the defendant Dean Winchester ‘not guilty.’”

“Bullshit!” someone shouted. The noise in the courtroom was deafening. 

The judge banged his gavel again. “I will not tolerate this disrespect in the courtroom. Silence, or everyone here will be charged with contempt of court!”

Sam didn’t think the judge could really do that, but the threat did its job, and the courtroom quieted. Cas and Dean exchanged grins, as did Sam and Jess. 

They’d done it!

Tonight, the Roadhouse would host a celebration, and Cas and Dean would be the guests of honor. Oh, and Ash Waterford, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if this chapter was anti-climactic. I don't know much about how the law works, so I didn't want to depict courtroom scenes riddled with inaccuracies. I don't think Dean and Cas would be tried together, but it was more convenient for the story to have a joint trial.
> 
> I couldn't find a last name for Ash, so I made one up.
> 
> I'm afraid Jess's discussion with Cas could seem unrealistic, but I rather like the idea of Jess and Cas being friends. Actually, I wish I could show Jess's POV, but it would make the story unbalanced since it's nowhere else in the fic.
> 
> There's an epilogue next, and I'll have some final thoughts when I post that, probably in the next couple of days.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! I'd be interested in knowing your thoughts.


	15. Epilogue--The Greatest of These Is Love

Three Years Later

After their ordeal in Kansas, Castiel and Dean moved to California to be nearer to the other branch of their family. They opened a garage, Winchester Automotive. Dean managed the mechanical side of things while Castiel looked after the business side. Customers liked their honesty and warmth, and with great word of mouth, soon their shop was thriving.

Shiphrah sometimes helped out with the cash register in the shop and lived with Castiel and Dean until she left for college at UCLA, where she was majoring in religious studies and psychology. University life was quite an adjustment for her, but she eventually found her rhythm. She even had a boyfriend: Timothy Hunter, who she’d been dating for five months. 

And that’s what this day was about. The extended family Winchester was having a Memorial Day barbecue in Castiel and Dean’s backyard, and Timothy was coming into town to join them. To meet the closest thing she had to a family.

Castiel and Dean would be there, of course. Sam and Jess, and five-year-old Mariana and one-year-old Tucker. Bobby Singer, who was like Sam and Dean’s grumpy old uncle. Even Jess’s half-brother Garth was in town. Jo and Anna had been planning to come, but they’d had to cancel at the last minute. 

Shiphrah was nervous; Sam, Castiel, and especially Dean were prone to going into overprotective mode. She was thankful for Jess, who was always the voice of reason when the men were being irrational.

She’d explained the strange family situation to Timothy. Well, sort of. She hadn’t yet been ready to reveal that she’d grown up in a cult. (Where her best friend had been Naarah, whom she’d been trying to find for the past four years to no avail. She hoped Naarah was doing well, wherever she was.) She’d told Timothy that Castiel was her cousin and only surviving relative. 

They’d set up a long table in the backyard, and now Castiel, Dean, and Shiphrah sat there alone while everyone else stayed inside. Shiphrah kept her ears peeled for the tell-tale signs of Timothy’s car pulling up. Dean was cooking burgers on the grill, and Castiel was keeping him company. Dean covered Castiel’s hand, massaging the knuckles, while he waited for it to be time to flip the patties.

A silver wedding band glimmered on Dean’s ring finger; Castiel wore a matching one. Shiphrah recalled the wedding that had taken place two years ago. It had been a small, intimate ceremony. Insisting that they had an equal partnership, Dean had wanted himself and Castiel to take the last name Winchester-Novak, but Castiel had argued for just Winchester because the Winchesters were his only family and the Novaks were immaterial. He’d never met them, after all. It was a valid point, so the couple had become Dean and Castiel Winchester. 

They still had nightmares about their past. She’d discovered their chronic nightmares after moving in with them; it was hard to miss the occasional shouts and screams at night.

Two nights ago, she’d been up late watching TV in the living room when she heard a startled cry. It had sounded like Dean, and she cracked their bedroom door open, peering inside, hoping they wouldn’t notice. But she was curious. 

Castiel and Dean were lying on the bed, and Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean and pulled him close so that Dean was flush against his side. “Who was it this time?” Castiel murmured.

“Naomi and Dad,” Dean rasped, his breathing shaky. “Together.” 

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel sighed, sadness tingeing his voice. Dean tucked his head under Castiel’s chin, and Castiel hummed to him, just as he sometimes did with Mariana and Tucker.

Last night, the nightmare had been Castiel’s. 

She had been watching TV once again, and she’d heard someone trot into the bathroom. A shriek had followed soon after. Then there was the sound of the toilet flushing. Shiphrah tiptoed to the hallway’s entrance to see what was going on.

“Cas!” Dean yelled as he rushed into their bedroom, leaving the door open in his haste. Shiphrah tried to stay out of sight as she peeked in. Dean smoothed a hand through Castiel’s hair. “Talk to me,” he beseeched. 

“It was Balthazar, and you,” Castiel croaked. “I was damning both of you.” Castiel shivered and wept.

Dean pressed a kiss to Castiel’s neck. “Shh. It’s okay,” he mumbled, throwing an arm around Castiel while he continued to run a hand through Castiel’s hair. “I’m right here, babe.” 

“Thank you,” Castiel whispered. He closed his eyes and fell into a doze.

Shiphrah stepped into Dean’s line of sight and asked, “Do you want me to shut the door?” 

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean answered. She was glad he didn’t ask how much she’d seen.

The rumble of Timothy’s car jerked her out of her thoughts. She’d told Dean about his sleek black Mustang, thinking he might be impressed. Instead, he’d scoffed and said Mustangs were overrated. Hopefully he didn’t base his judgment on Timothy’s car. 

Shiphrah darted into the front and waved at Timothy as he staggered out of his Mustang. He wore jeans and a red button-down shirt, his brown hair neatly brushed. “Hi, baby,” he greeted her as he pecked her on the lips.

“Hey, now,” Dean warned from behind them. She jumped, unaware he’d followed her. 

The anxiety in Timothy’s brown eyes was obvious, and Shiphrah would’ve found it amusing if she didn’t feel the same way. “Timothy, this is Dean Winchester,” she said. “Dean, Timothy.”

They shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Winchester,” Timothy articulated. 

“Just call me Dean. Please.”

“All right.” Timothy attempted a smile. “Dean.” 

“I’ve gotta go take care of the burgers,” Dean said. Shiphrah led Timothy into the back so he could meet Castiel.

“This is Castiel,” she said. “Castiel, Timothy.” 

“Pleasure,” Castiel murmured as he shook Timothy’s hand.

“You’re Shiphrah’s cousin,” Timothy commented. 

Castiel smiled, but Shiphrah wasn’t sure if Timothy would catch the expression. It could be hard to tell when he was smiling if you didn’t know him. “Yes.”

Shiphrah was about to take Timothy inside to meet everyone else, but they suddenly decided to join the people outside. Shiphrah introduced Timothy to them. Mariana hid shyly behind Jess, but in Jess’s arms Tucker, who loved meeting new people, laughed and reached for Timothy. Jess handed him to Timothy, and Timothy held him as if he was afraid he would drop the baby. Shiphrah took Tucker from him before he had a heart attack. 

“Grub’s ready,” Dean announced from the grill. Jess had set up plates, condiments, side dishes (baked beans, coleslaw, macaroni and cheese, and rolls) and drinks at the end of the table, and now everyone lined up for the food. They wanted Timothy to go first since he was the guest, so he did.

Once everyone was seated, the interrogation began, mostly from Dean. What’s your major? Chemical engineering. What was wrong with mechanical engineering? Nothing. So, where you from? Los Angeles. Your family lives there still? Yeah, my parents and little sister. Shiphrah has met them. 

“You did?!” Dean exclaimed. “You never told us that!”

Great. Now he’d think she was hiding things from him. “Sorry. I forgot,” she mumbled. She blushed as Dean continued the third-degree with Timothy, and Jess eyed her sympathetically. 

“We need some beer,” Dean claimed once they finished eating. “Why’d we forget the beer?” Shiphrah rolled her eyes inwardly. She knew Dean had neglected to buy beer on purpose, and she could guess what was coming.

Bobby stood up. “I’ll go get some.” He turned to Timothy. “Why don’t ya come with me?” 

“I’m not of drinking age,” Timothy protested; both he and Shiphrah were twenty.

Bobby snorted and yanked him away by his sleeve. 

Garth picked up Tucker from his high chair and took Mariana’s hand. “I’ll entertain the kids with Mr. Fizzles.” He took the children off to the side and proceeded to put on a show with that awful raggedy sock puppet.

This was the moment of truth. 

“So, what do you think?” Shiphrah asked in a quiet voice.

“He seems nice,” Jess opined. 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed.

She faced Dean, who sat across the table from her. “I guess he’s all right,” Dean acknowledged. “But I don’t know. He could still be a jackass.” Shiphrah’s heart sank. 

“Dean!” Jess admonished.

He shrugged. “What? First impressions can be deceiving.” 

Shiphrah knew very well that both he and Castiel had too much experience with people whose innocuous appearances concealed darkness underneath. She understood Dean’s stance, but she was disappointed.

“Castiel?” Shiphrah prompted. 

Castiel offered her a reassuring grin. “I trust you, Shiphrah. If you like him, that’s good enough for me.”

Shiphrah’s heart glowed at this response. Everyone was silent for a few minutes, but then Castiel declared, “Dean and I have an announcement to make.” He turned to Dean. “Don’t we?” 

“Yeah.”

“I think you should tell them.” 

“Um. Okay.” Dean began picking at a hangnail. Sam, Jess, and Shiphrah leaned in attentively, waiting for Dean to begin. “Wereadoptingababy.”

“What?” Sam replied. Dean had spoken too fast for anyone to catch his words. Castiel’s smile widened, larger than any she’d ever seen from him. 

“Wereadoptingababy,” Dean repeated.

“What?” Sam said again. 

“We’re adopting a baby,” Castiel echoed, speaking at a more comprehensible speed than Dean.

“That’s great! Congratulations!” Jess exclaimed. 

“Yeah. I’m happy for you,” Sam said.

Dean exhaled slowly. “Her name is going to be Cheyenne Mary Winchester.” 

“After me?” Shiphrah gasped.

“Yep. We thought it’d be nice.” Shiphrah’s eyes watered. The Winchesters treated her like family, had always included her, but she had never stopped feeling like an outsider. But this was proof . . . with the Winchesters, she _belonged_. “It was Cas’s idea.” 

“Castiel—”

Castiel flushed. “Don’t say anything.” He was tearing up, too. 

“Mary is after Mom,” Dean explained. “And the girl . . . the birth mother giving her up for adoption. Teen pregnancy, y’know. Her name just so happens to be Mary.”

Bobby and Timothy returned with a case of beer, and Garth and the kids came back to the table. Dean passed out a beer to all the adults except for Garth, who tended to get a bit loopy with even one sip of alcohol. 

“I’m underage,” Timothy objected when Dean attempted to hand him a can.

Dean guffawed. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a drink?” Timothy reddened. This wasn’t an act; he really had never tried alcohol, she knew. Shiphrah herself drank only occasionally, and Dean had provided her with her first beer. “Here.” He forced Timothy to take the can. “Figures you’d get yourself a nerd boyfriend,” he muttered. 

“Hey, we’re all a bunch of nerds,” Sam pointed out.

“Not me.” 

Castiel teased, “Who’s the one obsessed with history and old horror movies?”

“Shuddup,” Dean grumbled as he chugged a beer. 

Yes, her family was odd, and she loved every single one of them.

Timothy would fit right in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from 1 Corinthians 13:13 in the New International Version of the Bible: "And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love."
> 
> I actually have a (short) story in mind about how Jo and Anna came to be a couple, but it obviously didn't fit in with this fic. Maybe I'll write it sometime; I don't know. 
> 
> Finishing this story is bittersweet. I had fun writing it, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I liked writing it. When I wrote the first fic, _State of Grace_ , I imagined a story that would be 30,000 words tops. The final word count is more than double that. Then this sequel turned out to be just as long, which was longer than I'd imagined as well. I think the earlier fic is the better story; I put more of my heart into it. Not that I didn't put my heart into this; I did. But there's something about the previous story that especially resonates with me.
> 
> If you've read both stories, thanks for sticking with it. I'm sure there are more plot holes than you could shake a stick at, especially in this sequel, but it was still a fun (and emotional) ride for me, and I hope it was for you, too.
> 
> Thank you, readers, for accompanying me on this journey. Without you, I might not have finished the first fic, let alone written a sequel. I am very grateful that you took the time to read this story and the previous one.
> 
> I hope the ending was satisfactory, and I'd love to know your thoughts about the fic.


End file.
